Pain rolled over crystal, clear seen through unknown substance that'd be
soggy and revolting to touch.

Two bundled sticks of men, on, in touch and vocalising indistinguishably.

Life's just a howl, a disembowelling of pleasure; 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
over-painted, weighty, listening not hearing, I agree to my name being
passed to other carefully selected contractors, for instance, builders of a
bridge, saying nothing about the flow 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 over-painted, 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 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 a scratchpad area of his thought that is word-based, depending for its
brevity and eloquence 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 mega-tonnage, 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 under mind, principles very soft, below him,
already exhaustively self-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.

He modifies ambitions with his plans and actions.

Often better, he says, except when he is, rarely, entirely passive.

Today, I mean right now, time for him is not diurnal. Hhe 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 you open.

Doubled 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.

Thought's and more coherent representation of it 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.

He kicks the victim's head, wanting 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 that I'm painting is the same word it uses
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.

That is your body.

Fractures the vision of it.

What we see he sees, the identity of the relocatable and interchangeable
with other beings called he by themselves and others now or in past time.

Man creating violence is re attributing 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.

Info burst that isn't being videoed.

Temporal mental collage. Losing interest.

A marionette failing to please.

Rattle of film at the end of the reel. Popular image. We no longer need. To
play to see.