Sleeve-notes
COP (1984)
I'm naked, on my hands and knees, crawling down the hallway towards the incinerator. I'm boiling, I'm sweating, the leash around my neck is choking me; I want to burn. My master, the cop, is digging into my back with his steel claws. I feel all five of them. Each claw makes a separate canal in my flesh. He's holding the leash tight, pulling the choker when I rebel. He's shouting down at me: "Move, dog! Crawl! Hurt!..." His big mouth opens wide when he shouts. Stale, heavy gas comes up from his stomach and forms a cloud around my head. His guts smell like bileous hunger. I want to burn, and smell my flesh burning as I burn. The hallway is shifting sideways. When the cop shouts it knocks against the walls then slams into my head. I can hear my breathing. It's amplified a hundred times. It's the breath of a mechanical beast exhaling steam. My breath comes back at me and grinds me into the concrete floor. I stop moving. I've lost strength. My arms and legs have collapsed. My head's resting sideways on the hot concrete, my tongue hanging out of my mouth. My tongue's swollen, ready to burst. I look up. The cop's looking down at me, the fire from the incinerator reflected in his eyes. He flicks lightly at my tongue with his boot, smiling, showing mock compassion. I try to pull my tongue back into my mouth so I can form words. I want to apologize, assure him that I'm trying to get up strength. I want to burn. He raises his boot. I feel my tongue smashed into a pulp. The incinerator's roaring. The cop's face is deep orange. His shadow on the wall behind him is huge, the arms swinging down onto his head as he beats me. When I wake up I'm suspended by ropes in front of a mirror. I'm naked, my genitals have been cut away. The word "Crawl" has been carved into my chest. I hate my body. I don't want to look at it. When I try to turn my head away I can't: The tendons in my neck have been cut. When I try to close my eyes I can't: My eyelids have either been forced open or removed. I hate my mind, I hate my body. I'm trapped staring at my carcass. The sound of my breathing is torture. I try to stop breathing. I can't. I can't escape myself. Several policemen come in. They stand around me in a semi circle, discussing the shape and contours of my flesh. One of them takes a knife from his pocket and carves a slice of meat from my thigh. They pass it around, each one tasting it in turn. I'm happy to have them eating me. Eventually I'll disappear. As I dissipate they'll grow stronger. I feel myself pouring into them.
© Michael Gira
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