Cuthbert Mingoulin speaks...

WORKING CLASS? KISS MY BRYLCREEMED ARSE!

Good afternoon. I thought it was about time we caught up. I have been busy, dear readers. This afternoon I have been setting up a blog. Many people worry their heads about how to go about this. But it's simple: put a pair of used lady tights on your head, scratch out the eye holes and switch on. My idea for the blog is pure incendiary genius. You, like, trawl the internet for the most hateful inciteful bilge, pure decorous bile, and then you get, like, all disapproving and stuff. So the blog is basically full of entries that illustrate little else but your smug disapproval of things you don't like. For example, this afternoon I read an article about cat shit on Hadrian's Wall. Within minutes I was on my blog (tappity-tippity-tap) writing a clear-eyed sanctimonious statement disassociating myself from it and all the attendant horrors. Since then I've added tons more entries that disapprove of, like, a million things. Hopefully, I will end up disassociating myself from myself.

What else have I been up to? Stealing and mincing around as a sort of post-modern Goebbels, all Brylcreem and high-heeled totalitarian splendour. Designing things in my head. These are my ideas for next. The first one is called Bride's head revisited, an incredibly repetitive porno flick that is a meditation on bukkake and commitment. Look out for this one. The other one is a novel entitled The soon and mixpence, in which Paul Gauguin is transported to England in 1972 and gets all het up about decimalisation. (There will be a whole bunch of 'proletarian' readers who are too stupid to get that last joke. That's why Bernard Manning was invented you fucking clowns; because he's YOU. And here's me thinking I'm the one who should be disassociating myself from myself. Losers.)

Forward with the drums of death, friends. There is nothing in this life that points to anything. Only a hundred paths to your mutually assured destruction. The poetry of the future is exactly that. There is no now, no current, precisely because of temporality. Wallow in the filth like pigs, pigs. I will get in the car and drive over you all...

All best wishes, room marked with an X
Cuthbert Mingoulin

(Medieval Fiat) Punto XII

Manipulate thy gear stick, forsooth
Press thy pedals, gadzooks!
Odds bodkins, serve thy steering
But never thrust me in reverse, ye scurvy knave

WITH PILES STILL BLEEDING FROM QUANTITATIVE EASING


Martin Smith, chief thug of the SWP, chats with The Sir Poet of Duster



The Poet Duster: Hi their Martin. Do you have any dirty secrets about Lindsey German that you can share with us?

Martin Smith: Yo, my niggaz. Thug life, y’all. Sure, I know some hype mad tales about that BEEOOOTCH. Guess what? At da height of da Respect gig… sorry I’m having awful trouble keeping it gangster. Can I talk normally, please… erm my niggaz…

Duster: Of course, maybe keep it a bit real at the end of the interview to show you’re still down. What is it, old boy? Cystitis playing you up again? Or the piles?

Martin: Well my piles are still bleeding after each bout of ‘quantitative easing’, to coin a phrase. But I’ve also been doing a lot of fiddling with my three-card trick lately. I suffer a lot from sweaty palms, so there’s one or two friction burns around my helmet. It’s difficult to be so street when you’re all sore down their.

Duster: Back to that filthy German slag, comrade…

Martin: Well you won’t believe this but at the height of the Respect adventure, Lindsey arranged for John Rees to have his name changed by deed poll to Abdul – you would not believe the problems they’ve had with their water bill since then! Also, Lindsey arranged to have an old ice cream box full of Arab shit delivered to their house every day to use in so-called ‘curries’. However, we aren’t stupid at SWP HQ (oh no!) so we were able to intercept the pooh carton on her doorstep and Chris Harman used to piss in it. He partly died of dehydration you know…

Duster: Er right. Why did she want to eat all that Arab shit?

Martin: Well she told us that it was cheaper than buying a tanning machine. But now she’s moved on to Coco Pops – if it can turn milk brown I suppose it could even turn that savage old witch brown.

Duster: Why was Chris Harman in Egypt when he died?

Martin: Camel fucking. Obviously that’s illegal in Britain but not in Araby lands. He rang me up as he was dying actually and told me that three things were making him happy before his descent into eternal flame. The fact that a camel with a 14-inch cock was excavating his arsehole; that he’d been able to piss on Lindsey German’s tubs of Arab pooh for 18 months; and that he’d been able to write books so corruscatingly stupid and devoid of talent that even halfwits such as Dave Osler had derived some pleasure from reading them.

Duster: What’s next for Martin Smith and the SWP?

Martin: More aimless running up and down side streets, screaming the word ‘Nazi’ while being hemmed in on all sides by police officers; shitting myself in Asda every time I see a young lad with a Stone Island jacket on; and lots more niggaz and crazy-mad stunts that will make your skin peel. THUG LIFE Y’ALL. PROPS TO ALL DA SW NIGGAZ. PEACE OUT… Ohhhhh, these bloody piles…

SEX SLAVE- Cunto XLIII(Miniluv)

Rubicund bedlam because of the ram

coming in was sinking into the aircraft

as I landed on the ceiling here the spirit

becometh a lion opening manual change

will to pour over the direst mistress

giving one's hand to spank the phantom

swinging his crown jewels longing for

his over-fulness I'm assuming this is

a family piece in half boot formation

the middle is everywhere something warm

and living quickeneth me is the

preacher-on-the-mount there are no

skid marks as he shits in rose petals

In search of the Marxist grimoire

A conversation with Nick Griffin and The Poet Duster

Twilight descends. I have always been a big fan of Jean Michel Jarre’s Oxygene. To that end I have decided to give Nick Griffin the Oxygene of publicity (HAHAHAHA)

The Poet Duster: I watched your Question time performance with never-slackening interest. The whole day was obviously charged with sexual tension.

Nick Griffin: Yes, you are right. Clearly, in terms of the deranged female traitors protesting outside they were only there because they were starved of cock and the young fools would do anything to be man-handled by burly security guards. The whole issue about my appearance was obviously a masquerade.

Duster: I agree with everything you have said here. These people, to quote my old manager Ron Saunders, need the application of the birch and, in fact, such chastisement may turn out to be more erotically fulfilling than listening to Martin Smith in the back of a crap pub. But I also scented an undertone between you and Bonnie Greer. Were you not tempted to taste the dark meat? The horror, the horror…

Nick: Yes my Duster, I certainly was. But let me reveal a secret. Bonnie Greer was not all she seemed. It was actually Bonnie Langford in disguise…

Duster: What! Bonnie Langford is blacking up?

Nick: No, no, no. There is nothing that these Bolshevik Liberals at the BBC won’t stoop to. Lovely, pure, white Bonnie was drugged by the producers and, after various imprecations to dark forces, her skin took on an unwholesome lustre. Only I could see through the mask. This explains my air of playful arousal. Many times have I dreamt of my vital British spunk dripping from those ginger curls. Voodoo won’t stop me, my friend.

Duster: So, what’s next for you?

Nick: I am meeting with Bonnie Langford and David Dimbleby this week for a spit-roast.

Duster: Yum!

The Steve Clarke Show
16th October 2009

A gross theatrical history of Trotskyism

Episodomy 1: Gerry and the pacemaker

Gerry Healy, founder-leader of the Workers Revolutionary Party, is on the phone to party headquarters in Clapham on a rainy Saturday afternoon

GERRY: “… no, no, no you fucking imbecile, I don’t want to get into Vanessa’s knickers again… she’s got a bleeding fanny like a welly-top and she keeps bloody lapsing into all that acting crap… talking to me like she’s fucking Boadicea when I’m getting near the vinegar strokes… I need another one of them younger models… okay. Good.”

It is later. Gerry prances around in front of the mirror playing a role. Gerry the boxer, Gerry the groove, Gerry the player. He is practicing a monologue with an 18-year-old girl in mind. Let’s listen…

GERRY: “… darling, just think, if you lick my bell-end, within two years you could be secretary of a small branch in Neasden. Think of me as a modern-day Alexander the Great, I have it all to give.”

Monday. Gerry is at the doctor’s surgery. A doctor is talking.

DOCTOR: “So, Mr Healy, you may find these young fannies offer you more purchase in the sack but what you really need to do is to find someone more slack in the vagina department. All this friction is wearing your heart out - you need to get a pacemaker fitted.”

GERRY: “I like it. I like it.”

SEX SLAVE - Cunto XLII(Who's up for dairy queen?)
There was no subordination servicing was active
the mast was rigged as I leapt from ridge to
ridge his pierced pistol holster held over the
king's well exactly where I was three years ago
with a member of the family in frieda-style and
don't tense the head the throat is the energy
centre enlarged the glandular oratory and swallow
the crimson cachets I take vacations from
thinking providing amusements for bachelor attache
there's a circuitboard where his heart should be.

Following on from 'The Worst Book Ever Written', news is filtering in to us about -
The Worst Poetry Reading Ever!!!
By Ben Watson, biographer of former Chelsea full-back Frank Sinclair, and partner of Wally Hammond biographer, Ann Leslie.
Made for each other, the posh Jonathon Ross and his orange-haired missus who throws strops, of London's left-leaning. Watson recently threw up at the Leather Exchange in Borough Market.
There are comrades who have not yet sufficiently recovered from this event and sadly almost certainly never will.
Watson & Leslie after years of total bolloxology in the SWP have adopted the unpopular front tactic of badly washed natural nappies nose clothes-pegging around experimental poetry, music and vol au vant seminars; blanking people, staring through them, serene in their I can't see you, disneymarx avatar Dick-bubbles...It really is becoming increasingly difficult to remain in the same room as these two puffed-up adders, ssh cretins! listen to our baby cry...
Yes, they are the only experimental couple who have procreated and had issue. 2. Daddy has taken the role of Daddy characteristically way wayward too far. Ludicrously, Watson's latest performance involved one of said progeny...Oh the embarrassment of watching of a 76 year old retired general attempt to throw the baby out into his act!
Materialix Earth-Father mounted stage with kid a hanging baboon from his chest and attempted to provoke some grunts from the poor beggar...These to accompany his own privately educated poetic leaps which, because his printer was on the blink, he had the temerity to interpolate with fey growls & M Mouse moans, announced to a dwindling sheet of fingers as tributes too, wait for it...,...Bob Cobbing...
Assuredly, nothing has ever sounded less like Bob Cobbing.
Once upon a time, Watson & Leslie were dispatched to the insignificant University of Chipping Sodbury they belong, upon spectral Cliffs, they can't see you, goo-goo-ga-ga, it doesn't exist.
They coo-coo-ca-choo past you, they won't talk to you, Nuts in May, reputation-tanks, a musical of themselves they dispense if you're lucky, if you agree with them - 'She's 2, through us, she shall reign...', watch out 4 Burke & Hare, they're hunting for their moments, you might be one of their moments, Loreal moments, because they're worth it.

It ain’t half hot, mun!

The next phase of marketing Jack Conrad’s Fantastic reality: Marxism and the politics of religion, aka The Worst Book Ever Written, swings into action.


Ben Fischer of the CPGB’s Provisional Conrad Committee (PCC) writes: ‘Hello, my lovelies. The first stage of marketing this piece of semi-literate horseshit was quite tidy. In fact, we sold six copies, which is two more than we were banking on. For our next sales phase we intend to keep a close eye on charity shops across Britain (Oxfamine, Spastics) because we are guessing that the two people outside the PCC who bought the book won’t want to keep the bloody thing. Here’s how you can help:

• If you see a copy of Fantastic reality in your local charity outlet, give us a call and we'll get our technical expert, Andy ‘he made a commie website blue’ Spanner, on the case. He will insert a technical chip (fully salted) inside the book so it can be tracked from our plague-ridden HQ in Hackney Wick.

• If you actually see some poor fucker buying this addled heap of parrot droppings call us at the office and we will send Jack Conrad directly to the scene by helicopter so that he can sign the book or, more likely, hustle the buyer quickly toward the till before they change their mind. After all, he's got fuck all else to do. Tidy darts.

BTW – if anyone spots any old Max Boyce records, give the Party a shout.’

BEN LEWIS (CPGB) AND LAWRENCE PARKER - SELECTED CORRESPONDENCE

BEN (PICTURED BELOW) TO LAWRENCE

What muck? What head? My music taste? Thanks for the heads-up though. Any news on the cricket? Give me a call if you get five minutes.x

LAWRENCE TO NICK

Dear Nick,

sorry not to get back to you all earlier about the HOPI cricket game. The bodies have been dropping from the windows above me at an ever-rapid pace. The blind has to be down at all times of the day. Introspection is a kind of watchword. And I refuse to be organised.I cannot play and this is a warning to all who think of participating. Your LRC opponents are a fraud. LRC stands for Lavender Recoil Cadaver. It is a byword for those ancient sorceries that marked my descent into fraternal gloom. Beware all ye cricketers!I trust this is of help to you.

All best wishes,

Lawrence

The Rotten Elements (in a personal capacity)

LAWRENCE TO BEN

Dear Ben,

Howzat?

Excuse my little jokey. Yes mate. Me and Paul are ready for the game on Saturday as we have had a good few nets. Luckily I've got Middlesex Colts up the road so we've been having a good bash. Neigh. I'm sure we can pummel those LRC RETARDS. Do you mind if I open and Paul bats at 5? We can see how it goes then - if the openers score well then Paul goes in at three. Or four. Boom!

We don't want that cretin Attila the Hun to talk to us at any point during the day. In fact, none of the other Team HOPI lot should approach us. But we're happy to talk to you as an intermediary - we like you. A lot. Also, for the gig in the evening, obviously you'll want the Rotten Elements to perform, as you don't have any other artistic groups who have evinced our immense, cloying pools of sympathy. But what we have planned is a stage-poetic interpretation of Leni R's Triumph of the will from a Marxist perspective, under harsh antiseptic WHITE lights it's enough to make you sick and end it all it is.

One day I will be prime minister. I will be adored as the strong man. All of our mutual enemies will repent their CRIMES or perish in the eternal flame. And it won't end there under clouds of mutual recrimination my battered hulk of body will burn forever all must pay price, cereal kebab monster.

Anyhow, I'm looking forward to Saturday.

Best wishes for it all,

Lyndon

FROM THE ROTTEN ELEMENTS TO EVERYONE

Dear comrade,

we are disorganising a football game on Hampstead Heath on Saturday October 32nd (kick-off 3pm) in aid of nothing, son of nothing.

The game will begin in tense hues of blackened teardrops, quickly evaporating to a hellish symphony of half-desire, crap from a diaper, lavender. John McDonnell won't play, being an agent of THEM. But he said yesterday: 'This game conjures up jinni, binary stars, sombrero galaxies, ring nebulae and the well-nigh-Lovecraftian deep strangeness of the almighty Globular Cluster now lurking in the grand and glorious constellation of the Centaur.'

Proceeds from the game go to HOPI; only to be stolen by a ladyboy dolled out as Ronnie Biggs. Don't take the 'A' train, comrades! Yah boom. This incident will be a theatrical recreation of the time when Lawrence Parker stole SLP branch funds for MARIJUANA and CPGB Manchester branch funds for PORNOGRAPHY.

With communist gratings,

Lawrence

Communiqué from The Rotten Elements

Dear friend,

The Poet Duster of the Rotten Elements talks about the death of the 'working class' project in conversation with pervert Cuthbert Mingoulin (death-face, graveyard-tinged freak). Clearly from this point in time, Marxism will be snake style. Say goodbye to the left, comrades, because some of us fuckin' have...

"To that end, there is something healthy, I believe, in the decline of ‘class consciousness’."

We will publish more of the interview in the coming weeks, in between reading about occult strategies in banking and the foliage of the Third Reich.

BEN TO LAWRENCE

Cheers Lawrence. Enjoyed it.

Was also a nice distraction from translating Hitler's letters to Eva - some very dirty shit went down there.
Ben

LAWRENCE TO BEN

Thank you, Ben. More instalments coming soon. I'm being partly serious about the translation. There must be loads of Nazi stuff untranslated - real filth - you could make a lot of money banging this out to neo-Nazis.

Lawrence

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE POET DUSTER #3

Despite all the minor amputations, the third and final shareholders’ report from Cuthbert Mingoulin’s fireside chat with the magnificent Sir Poet of Duster

Cuthbert Mingoulin: Given that you intend to develop your writing into more wholesome forms, to who do you now look for inspiration?

The Poet Duster: Finchley, in that I admire anybody who can write in East London. Here, it is youth, green trees and innocence. There it is maggots, plague, sticky sidewalks. Why do you think they invented Stoke Newington? As a place that could mimic NW, with better food. Here, gardens are viewed as more than something in which to chuck cigarette butts…

Mingoulin: … I really meant in terms of writers…

Duster: Well, Dennis Wheatley is my boy right now. Having watched the Weekly Worker editorial team in midnite carpet-slipper bestial action I think Wheatley’s attempt to run a line between Satanism and world communism may have had something going for it. I also dig John le Carré, particularly the George Smiley books. I like the manner in which he puts his style to use, loading a skip full of emotional content onto a bunch of characters that are the moral equivalent of those naughty boys at school who drilled a hole in the changing-room wall so that they could leer at girls. It’s a neat confidence trick.

Mingoulin: In terms of your new book, do you have any plot details to betray?

Duster: It’s about images, the spectacle. It’s a world in which commodity production has ended in order to better connect with its ugly philosophical heart. It’s about tubes, funnels, an area called Klang where you go for boom-boom. The dialectical counterpoint is the imperfection of Martin Bormann’s skin, which, in my future world of grand illusions, is the source of a deadly voodoo cult that threatens the whole shining edifice. Definitely worth writing a public statement disassociating yourself from, in other words…

Mingoulin: Who’s the hero? I’m intrigued, comrade.

Duster: It’s you, you fucking tool!

Anne Ede. I Resign!

I have not been contributing to the Rotten Elements blog in recent months because of a messy love triangle involving Julia Kristeva,

I attend internal Rotten Element functions, not the least The Poet Dusters' literary salons.I was looking forward to the one held last night. There seemed to be a whiff of controversy in the air regarding his recent posts about Paul Hill. It's an open secret that Hill and I don't see eye to eye on most things poetic, especially Toilet Duck.

I was a little concerned when I received The Dusters invite. I'm used to his tongue in cheeks irony and his stunts. The Freddie Starr of the Revolutionary Left, he bites hamsters heads off & sieg heil's away. But to hold the event in Finchley, withone of Jane's bikini-lines:

Come to the constituency home of the woman I love above all others - Margaret {I'd Fuck'er} Thatcher!

Seemed, even to me, his biggest fan, a gross dialectical error.

Anyway, dressed as a gamin I arrived in good time, only to be met at the door by The Duster dressed up like a latter-day Bertie Wooster! I thought it was Stephen Fry. Monocle, plus fours, tank-top, his usually rambunctious locks overly-oiled into a Brummigem Basin! I laughed, he looked ridiculous, it was a joke yes! Ha! Yes?

I have to reveal that I was met with a stony glare! A look of such Uriah Heapian unctious, solemn reproof that it was as if I was looking into the eyes of BBC1's Adrian Chiles. The Duster was serious! With his eyes discriminating fishily he directed me to a seat reserved for Martin Kallikak...

There, were the other Rotten Elements, disconcerted to a lobster, dressed in the usual gay attire. Vivian Bolus was wearing a dessicated tunic derived from plastic gums of various orientated false teeth!

We waited nervously as The Duster with much aplumsauce put on a bootleg recording of Peter Skellern, ejaculating by way of an aside -

- God you should hear him with Stilgoe! They tear it up! And what a show!

Things were awry. The Duster mounted the nave and sat in a throne that a cut ladyboy had laboriously hufted into place. There was a plonk. A small child fell feral from a chimmey. The Duster looked up at the stars. Breaking the spine of an un-used 1987 Bangkok A-Z, he spoke (think Biggles and Teresa Gorman!):

- You are all hopelessly lost! Take a right! First right! Second right! Tack violently to the right! Listen. I have written a novel. It is different. It is better than what you write. Pricey. It is clipped like a, like a...

He hesitated, gustatory,

"Like a Minge!"

He had found his metaphor. But like Dr Jekyll, at what expense? What had he lost?

" It is short. Like women. But it goes on. Like cock. And on. On!"

He ground his teeth.

to be continued...

A PUBLIC STATEMENT BY SUKI SINGH
I wish it to be made known that as a Rotten Element, I would like to disassociate myself with the sentiments expressed in the tract below.

I remain,
Yours sincerely
Suki Singh

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE POET DUSTER #2

Cuthbert Mingoulin chats further with The Poet Duster of the Rotten Elements collective

Cuthbert Mingoulin: You talked previously about the absurdity of associating Marxism with the so-called liberation of the working class. But the Rotten Elements did not begin from this position, right?

The Poet Duster: You are quite right. And for that reason I think the Rotten Elements should probably be dissolved quite soon. Some of these ridiculous ‘proletarian’ fictions undoubtedly sustained us in our more political moments…

Mingoulin: … but in artistic forms you completely rejected any specific proletarian standpoint. At least in the manner that the contemporary left might understand it.

Duster: In surface terms, yes, we spoke out loud and clear, and maybe perhaps our lasting effects would be our bitter and ridiculous satire on the revolutionary left in general, and our exposure of the fact that, in artistic terms, large chunks of ostensible Trotskyites are still in love with debased Stalinist forms. But aesthetically, I doubt whether we are rid of this ‘proletarian’ curse.

Mingoulin: Can you explain further?

Duster: Well, take a writer such as Paul Hill. If there was any motive for justice in the world, people would be making sculptures of him, putting him on big, in lights. Up there. The trouble is I think that Paul’s talents get masked by the whole world of production and performance he is involved in. The content’s always good, he’s got the gob and presence to project it but it all falls away because it’s never staged; it tends to spontaneity; there seems to be this democratic notion that anybody can do it; and it always looks terrible. I’m only going from a very limited experience of clubs such as the Klinker. But sustaining all this apparent culture of non-performance seem to be certain proletarian gestures. The authentic look and feel of poverty. It’s easy to be scornful of this because these people by and large have no money. But then, someone such as Sun Ra had periods of having no money but there was an aspiration to put on a show. And, by that turn, even a show, a spectacle, of poverty can sustain a living critique. Most of the leftfield performance stuff I have seen can’t sustain any such critique because it can’t establish sufficient distance from its surroundings. The only solution for this is for such art to become implicated; to market itself; and this can’t be done from the back of pubs or blogs for that matter.

Mingoulin: Is this how you will approach your writing in the future?

Duster: Yes. From this point on I will market everything ruthlessly. The new commerce. Like, the original plan was to write a completely bonkers novel that I would publish myself and three people would love it. The cult of the basement. My plan now is to write a partially bonkers novel that glistens all over with a rich metallic sheen where every phrase is chewed over, pressurised, compacted. Lean writing, you know. The title was Martin Bormann’s Watermelon Skin – now it will probably be Watermelon Skin and I want millions to read it. Of course, then I’ll probably be sick of the fame and insult people, and go back to the basement… but at least it will be furnished by Habitat…

SEX SLAVE - Cunto XLI(For John R.I.P)
Boxed in and then out for sixty-seven
quits Castle philosophers in blank night
warmth hovers by bar rumba bearded memory of
ghost salutation loss of his soft tone
sing song ales me attentive brother lets go
as equinox chill sets in for your
cold throne and coronet the kindness
still radiates permeates and sets seal
on kinship of the sole survivors

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE POET DUSTER #1

Cuthbert Mingoulin chats with Poet Duster of the Rotten Elements collective

Cuthbert Mingoulin: Your recent messages to the Rotten Elements collective have been rather gnomic and alluded to fascist imagery. Can I ask you for your thoughts on this?

The Poet Duster: Sure. The first thing you need to know is that I’m not a democrat. Never have been, never will be. But fascism and Stalinism are absurd, lethal gibberish and utterly conservative. What drew me to Marxism was its extremity; so when you get into Marxism you gather round its extremes, the margins. I like Lenin best when he’s explaining why looters should be shot in the civil war. It’s a great psychodrama but there’s nothing else there. His Collected Works are a blank. Record over. For me, Marxism has always been a method. I was tempted to say ‘just’ a method, but this method is awesome. Last night before I put my daughter to bed we stood on our doorstep and looked into the heavens, plotting our course to the stars. That’s method. Some people have accused me recently of having a Hitler fixation. Not true. My only real thought about Hitler was after I read that book about Adorno’s dreams and I wanted to do the same thing with Hitler. To pose those kinds of questions and tasks moves beyond all that stale rhetoric about fascist and anti-fascist. If pushed I’m an anti-fascist, but really, what does that mean anymore? The one Nazi I really dig is Bormann – specifically his skull.

Mingoulin: We will talk more about your novel later, but if Marxism is ‘method’, what of the working class, the proletariat…

Duster: … equating Marxism and the working class is a twentieth century episode. You could say it’s the form that Marxism took in an era of defeat. Organisations that cling to this antique idea are shrinking by the day. I’m not part of that left anymore. Certainly, the proletariat still exists and if there’s any kind of revolution against capital it’s a reasonable assumption that the proletariat would be involved in some form. But to base a politics or rhetoric around this is absurd. I’m not that bothered with the sociology of all this. What exactly do people mean by ‘proletarian revolution’ or the ‘struggle for proletarian culture’, given that the proletariat itself is a category of capital? By trying to reinvigorate this arcane idea you only end up reinvigorating capital. And, actually, most people I know would struggle against the idea of being proletarian, even if that describes their reality in some form. To that end, there is something healthy, I believe, in the decline of ‘class consciousness’.

Mingoulin: Does this not mean the reinvigoration of popular frontism if you have no proletarian standpoint?

Duster: No. The problem with fuckwits such as the Respect/SWP crowd is not one of sociological make-up – although this is narrow – or its lack of a ‘proletarian standpoint’. The problem is its politics have been designed to accommodate the existing system of capital. ‘Proletarianising’ those politics would only lead such organisations back to an accommodation with the system.

Mingoulin: Thailand appears as a constant motif in your work. Why is that?

Duster: It made me realise that I like money. Like, right now I dig the idea of making a lot of money and that first became a need in Thailand in that to stay there and do nothing I needed lots of money so I had to come home to London, to work. I’ll probably never go back. Of course, I know all the Marxist arguments against money but I treat it like a vice. I know it’s bad for me but I want it. Thai people have a more straightforward attitude; they don’t half-arse about. For example, most of the Thai girls I met told me that our farang attitude to love was, in effect, abstract. They loved people who took care of them, which invariably meant providing money. There didn’t seem to be any shame in the fact that sex was a commodity there and ultimately I decided that I’d rather treat it that way, even though there was tons of free fanny about – ironically because a lot of Thai women are interested in Western men as a source of money! I thought of writing a book: Prostitution: the ‘real’ thing. But that’s an aside – the bottom line is that money is an incredibly useful vice to have.

SEX SLAVE - Cunto XL (Somewhere a priapic god is laughing)

Each in his own wilderness dreamt again in double

mirrors and now I've earned my place outside

the skin society bints in private parties when there's

sacred work to be done spent force of riptide awoken

in pain belly pierced by tail ingrate I think that's him

but I can't be bothered to lose the big words

I knew his mind and body in a void and now

I'm ready to pimp the pergola and consolidate

position sometimes when I breathe it hurts

"When was the last time you lied?"
BBC Radio Phone-In Topic

when was the last time i told the truth
we laughed & screamed through the markets
i got snagged on the bracken
replete, you were angry with me
terrified of the chimps
one of twenty panting
the cupboard was bare
there is no northern outfall
pay cash. x box. game
take it to market
the quadrilateral desk
in the small box window
greed inskittled
wind-whipped
bollard of danger
the old sand-blasted draft dodger
easy, remember!

Then these r dumped in2 inappropriate boxes
Billiard cues swish!
Let us off the augurs let us unravel

Let us harmo-linger in the mouth

Wow! I've got a brand new no permission
Gleg celeb, categories of remaining
Sound check van hire half hour
Fridge

The skin of the seas they can slide
they can slide by
the wind winnowing guest

gust estrogen
glide alongside sort of frenzy
remit simple & trendy

This is not how I want you to read

Dials gone.
gustatory slang tossed into the seas
mouths tremulous
dangerous accents homemade
tide, Congo, bends, yips,

Puff-puff!
i miss you
bish-bosh
i'll have you

-flects, distinguished waters
insurgents
caremelised off with the doctors
up with the dirigibles & kerrang!

review the aspic
coagulate the hair potions
stick-on lips

they must not sag like the Oriental wrists
dosh in on float into town
really owly via chug

chug
skiffle
1. 2. wherry
starts with a sniffle

On board
where does the head belong
the eyes etc

grope
toward foreign soil
lose all contact

1 by 1
they all fall off
they all drop off

they all scream
packed into boxes
rummy men

{low rumble of skid row
department of sometimes we don't
there are the easy stinging days}

(drop down behind
on a rope behind
guestimate the elevation)

throw it together
staple it
lash it up

SEX SLAVE - Cunto XXXIX (The night of two swords)

Ancient and present he took me by the middle and

raised off his helm saddle sore and sword drawn a fire

of undetermined origin moved past forgiveness to

the wound that creates inferable derogation of manikin

heart abated further with perfidy but one small feather

touch was desideratum and with homily and humming

insouciance he whispered be patient and keep looking at

the picture, I fell, I am the prize and yet I am dead

Mapesbury Road. NW2. Just off the Kilburn High Road.

Paul Celan used to visit his father’s sister there.

"The stillness waved

at you from behind

a black woman’s gait."

dry airless,

suspirating, powdery

cobwebs

desiccation

disintegration

finely spun

still born

Maplesbury Road

breathturn

threadsuns

North of the future

led me in to the Narrow way

Mind-manacled

set

swimming suns

set

not a sun

some sun

set

im- or ex-

the sun

-ploded

these suns are now thin elongated lines of flight

ha-ha threads are fragile

threads can break

we hang by

fathoms

by the length of 2 arms

stretched out

greyblack wastes

pull down the blind

stress,

under duress

we scheme

we ride

her skirt rides up beyond mankind

Fuck aesthetics!

It’s all very “ ironics “

What

(…shrugs inaudibly)

we are on the emergency trail

eyeglances

breathturn

my tongue is the drum

clamps

tighter & tighter &

speechwalls

broken down

& then what?

Piss wet through with sound

her eyes alight

bedraggled hand stands slides in Sunday nurse

‘I’m ready to go’

‘Ready to go?’

‘Let’s go!’

‘No’

Detour maps. The maps are phosphorous.

a grinding halt

teeth – angle – daily

(sound of having to let breath out)

walk thru pub looking all around,

every single night for 6 months, a year, 2

Look round. Ssh

Period.

(Finger traces ever-decreasing circles)

frowning

stop frowning

please stop frowning

Say there are murdergaits

Say there are murdermouths

-gobbling up the City

They are doing experiments

They are doing experiment here (points to head)

with sighs

with sighs

They are doing experiments on me

What about you?

Probably muffled by, here comes Muffin!

muffled screams

next door

…no music. no codes. no maps. no muffled sighs from the cloakroom.

‘You are aware I imagine, I imagine of interference.

Interfere. Cut out. Threadneedle. Cut up.

Cut it out! cunt.

deeper

darker

sleeper

wide-awake exterminator

dance the iron-tango

swoon, without clock

the clock stops

-empty bottle

-empty bottle

-empty bottle

jingle-jangle

-fold

-fold

-fold up

-folding

1 more time. Here we go. I want. I dance.

‘I want never gets!’ My guts.

Wash up. dry. washed-up on shoreline, waste-line.

There is light. Ziv. to & fro. at the end of the journey. Ziv.

nb - The picture above was taken in stereoscope by Oliver Sachs in 1945 from his boyhood home, 37 Mapesbury Road. In September 1963 Mick Jagger and Keith Richards started songwriting together for the first time at 33 Mapesbury Road.

This received via correspondence from Bony Chum:

p nnt tssse w

MNN
scuccc te bt

ackk spt sdthe

nic
kkkkinvnnn

SPIn tttttttssssshn TMnxT

mxtulpolya

ixtr

poujm

swt

spnd sdpm np np np

swwwt swt

What a jolly damned coincidence!
On the day Anthony Blunt's long secret memoir was published, here's a bit of Builders Crack at The Steve Clarke Show last Friday.
Traitors All!

For further details:
The Steve Clarke Show
Clarkenhill
John Stevens

The new ART

The new art is total
The new art is occult
The new art glistens
The new art has a sheen
The new art envelops
The new art doesn’t care
The new art obliterates
The new art is anti-human
It’s enough to make you sick

'It conjures up jinni, binary stars, sombrero galaxies, ring nebulae and the well-nigh-Lovecraftian deep strangeness of the almighty globular cluster now lurking in the grand and glorious constellation of the centaur...'

THE STEVE CLARKE SHOW

FRIDAY 17th JULY

TOTTENHAM CHANCES

8.30 TIL LATE

Brian Iddenden
Clarke&hill
YH Rebel Frenzee
& Locker G
Spanish Castle Magic
The Inferno!
+
After a turbulent period of splits,
acrimony, hatred, mutual
recrimination, petty jealousy,
embezzlement, law-suits,
financial irregularities, childish
gossip, malicious name-calling
BUILDERS CRACK
ARE
BACK!!!
To Save the World!

Sex Slave - Cunto XXXVIII(The house of voluntary bondage)
The evil had found company in her as
the common crafty sinner seperated the
psychical group in concrete formation with
implacable hatred who grows cold first?
A great admirer of the Oxford member I think
I think acceptance into consciousness was
resisted so void her identity how do you
come to think of the circus? Cataleptic
rigidity brought up by excitable heretic
fisting I make vices and others have the fame
don't hover in the doorway