text || Lawrence Upton

Collage in a rolled medium

white walls, red lights, a horse being encouraged with tidbits, blue lights, tarpaulin, a book of poems, an epistle of St Paul, degradation of the gene pool, black box, plastic, metal

helping hand severed at the wrist

“we do it better” from a neon sign

a small being which casts no shadow

an alley between two main roads

the end of the barrier wall but the wind blows you back so you still can't cross

the landscaped gardens are grass covering mud

an eye piped out of a door of light

war and play and sex combine

lovers hitting each other in anger

a lift shaft tipped sideways

blocks are burning between empty spaces

a killer whale in the top right hand corner of the screen

fire!

smile! a parachute drop goes upside down

fire! smile as you talk to me

why is it your knickers are always further below mine on the floor?

nothing will happen till we have maximised our income for the evening so let them all come in

a screw hole in a perfect wall through which a perfect burglar might be expected to climb

the first floor hangs over the ground floor, Turkish style

stubble burning in a field

how very English, he says, calls of rage and of pain, smell of flesh, how superbly understated

the newspapers are effectively ours says Xanadu, cartoon remake of Citizen Kane, the one with the chipmunk chorus

slowly the musicians assemble the stage from a variety of images: speakers, mike stands, instruments, audience noise, overpriced beer and cigarette smoke. Vagg, with the local press, stands at the back looking for people to libel playing with his cock through his greasy trousers' pocket; looks for P.C. Ross

a pompous moustached man is talking about Chaucer, calling everybody old boy, watching a slim woman with big tits

Oh the Hammond organ's wonderful she says and tells of how her ex-husband resembled Mick Jagger, before he got bloated, she says

a rickety shack, a set from Sanders of the River, surrounded by mud and reeds; and tranquil viscous water the colour of shit and piss mixed in front of the shack at his civil service desk, Mick Jagger is signing a paper and shaking the hand of a black fellow in feathers and bones. And that Chief, or should I say now, Mr President, is the final process in establishing your new tax system modelled on the very best British practice; you are now independent; he turns from the obeisant president clutching the piece of paper and conducts a school choir through a set of songs by Byrd before delivering a rendition of Jumping Jack Flash which shows us clearly that he has lost none of his fire; the audience gets excited; its members look identical; gosh, she whispers to herself, the other girls will really envy you

a broken rod of lightning in a dim building; a little boy playing with a model of a Vulcan bomber in the darkness

gathered curtains, red and grey, are lowered along the last stretch of the Berlin Wall

the Head of Marketing welcomes angry shoppers to his latest enterprise and, low down, a star or planet begins to shine. That'll be four pounds and seventy three pence, Sir

A Professor of Ergonomics says and I am equally disposed to break your head

Bob Dylan sings Watching the river flow

a stick on peel off plastic sign points to the crematorium

it is nearly time for tea

the end of a stocking hangs out over her toes; god, she says, my belly's fat; good, he says, I like you fat

Oh Maggie I wish I'd never seen your face

so hard did she hit the insect with her shoe that it broke into collapsing pieces like a crashed helicopter

a single soap bubble, hazy blue and less than a centimetre across wanders over the bracken; it is nearly sunset

the builders are preparing to sweep up

she is spraying her pot plants with an atomiser

a bottle of water on a grand piano

a glass ash tray on an empty cinema seat

a last call for papers

he lived in London when he first graduated

two trumpets together play the bass line to the pianist

a tin whistle and a lot of people clapping

an extension cable, black, plugged into a socket

a black cat tearing up a piece of anaglypta wallpaper

two girls running along a marshy track, one saying it's horrible wet and cold, why can't we go by car

white walls, red lights, a horse being encouraged with tidbits, blue lights, tarpaulin, a book of poems, an epistle of St Paul