text || Lawrence Upton

PROCESS OF REPRESENTATION

Pain; rolled over, seen, through unknown substance, soggy, and revolting to touch

two bundled sticks of men, in touch and vocalising. Life is just a howl, a disembowelling, cheerless

rolls over, his lust at the window takes in the scene, and takes his ease, asking for it, asking for it, big jugs sticking out like that; and this talk is overpainted, listening, weighty, not hearing, I agree to my name being passed to other carefully selected contractors, for instance, building a bridge and saying nothing about the rate of blood below, for instance, collecting and cataloguing all available data with regard to their royal highnesses and other very important people or, alternatively and connectedly, keeping a record of all your activities which could prejudice the advancement and strengthening of the beloved state. All this and more. Each layer is sanded before it's overpainted, sometimes to the foundation, the menu changes every day. Few of our plans are actually commissioned. It is a matter of personal choice and a question of taste educated. How can you say otherwise? Eh? You cun’. Eh? You arse hole.

A leg terminating in a boot slips out of the perpendicular. The kicker leans upon his other foot, yet to develop rheumatoid arthritis. Proud as always of his independence, he aims his boot heavily and precisely into the genital area of his verbal adversary. The single inappropriate or unrelated word he says is cunt, says it again, that is, as he causes the injury he intends to cause. He never fails. Days of experimentation are past. In his mind, figuratively, the scratchpad storage area of his brain, word-based, depending for its brevity and elegance on long-term associations, some of them arbitrary, none of them judicial, except tangentially, he is thinking of real cunts he has fucked and licked and lain beneath and hurt, sometimes all within the same intensely mental half hour, and somehow at the same time he is thinking of nuclear warheads and evaluating injuries he has inflicted by himself in terms of megatonnage, ignorance providing the illusion of analogy. The ideas of stellar heat and energy release, of retributive response and sexually-associated penetration are all part of the same dogged multi-headed divinity in his mind, principles very soft, below him, already exhaustively exploited. Pain in someone's balls, which he has caused, is as good as a fuck as far as he's concerned, he says: different, but as good. Like all survivors he modifies ambitions with his plans and actions. Often better, he says, except when he is, rarely, entirely passive in the act. Today, I mean right now, time for him is not diurnal; he conjugates his victim backwards from plural to singular, from object and sociable; already the strained is telling, a squealing subject intransitively uttering, to single voice, lips and tongue blue, blood a full stream. I'll kick your prick away. I'll burst your balls open.

Double self-hatred, thick and rich and malleable, sticks to teeth of its opposition; it will not break into reasonable suicide yet finds murder inadequate, centred on the genito-urinary area of the species in general of which specific examples are either wound or weapon. Kill this piece of shit. A piece of cake. Make it last. Eat him up. Slice him. He'll be gooey. I'll turn him inside out. He'll stick to himself. I'll make him crumble, the thoughts and my more coherent representation of them so stylised more stylised than he wills, as stylised as his exaggerating giganticism, coat thrown back to hang upon lines of breeze and gravity as he postures, omnipresent author of story, round the pleading piece of flab he's torturing, shoulders pushed back, back held straight, breaks the mirror of the face, window of self-conception. I mean he kicks the victim’s head in, but I want to do justice to his violence, to find the nature of its kind and class. Class is an array of attributes. Think of a dashboard or a cockpit with switches turned on or off. All I think to call this cunt I'm painting is a cunt although I have stayed away from violent boots or stayed them with acceptable responses, boot comes again. A complex wrench. A crank. Kicks the wretch repeatedly, mashing and crushing, it loses shape, down. Cuts it. Breaks it into portions. Fractures the vision of it. What we see he sees, the identity of he relocatable and interchangeable with other beings called he by themselves and others now or in past time. Man creating violence is reattributing gender, calling his client girl and her and she as his perception of the body shifts. A rapid process. As perception of the body shifts its centre of observation, an intertwining ungrammatical collocation governed by unstated rules. Bob Dylan cue cards. Info burst that isn't being videoed. Temporal mental collage. A bully losing interest. A marionette failing to please. Rattle of film at the end of the reel.