Monday, April 21, 2014

Lawrence Upton


Memento mori. Logic board in bloom, layout of a small town, representation of part of the DNA code, seen, with care, through the optic nerve; voiced over commentary by a famous actress, views of a small town. Layers of fabric fall away from bones. Do you think that I look fat? See you next year. The harbour falls away; the sea grabs hold of storage jars.

Tell us stories. Tubes keep survivors alive; water from one place, electricity from another; all susceptible to failure. One wakes in the middle of the night fearful that they have disconnected him and stands in the middle of his room, alone, waiting for his heart to stop, slowly becoming aware that he is not a long-term survivor.

Slow worm, receptacle for eggs, deep chasm, stale bread, among the stars, wisps of buildings; a spread of disease, cakes and water-ices; a spoonful of brown sugar on each person's grapefruit. Say again? It's almost as if just as you get the meaning as if it were allowed by the caesura caused by acknowledging the camera.

Broken cable; quite unpleasant stillness. A group of people stands round the ruins, ill at ease: one has a headache, one faces an operation; all let their arms hang down weakly except to steady bags and cameras. One falls into a hole which, almost immediately, is filled up with earth and cement. One begins speaking to an empty hall. One puts out the chairs. Everyone has left the party. Everyone has changed the subject. Some are being bullied. Some are being drawn by the spectacle. Many are being hurried by the guards. Many are being photographed surreptitiously. All will be bitten by the bug. All will be written about. None will understand. None will care. All are receptors.


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