Original contemporary art prints.

The Slightest Fragment

The Slightest Fragment
February 18, 2007 facter

I need to edge out the science of over performing. Over correcting and over-relating to all those things that have come and scraped up against the wilderness of my fingertips – the barren, tender little bites of temple touch there at the end of my taste.

Is it axiomatic, quietly now – is it tragic of asymmetry in me to want to take those cardboard cutouts and swords made of rolled up paper and poke tem into the recesses that hold my together? That I want to stab myself with the edges of a thousand letters,and pour vinegar over the multitude of papercuts that they leave in their wake?

Oh, but maybe i wont feel them p having lost tat sense of touch. Having contracted that bacterial leprotic cisternation of sameness – the nerve ending died.

Do you think that even butchers cry when they see the footage of baby ottes being skinned alive for uper-class Russian cosmonauts wives? Am I in that caegory? Will I even flinch as I eviserate myself? take that cardboard and shove it right up into myself, past the colon (perforated and un-clean), unto the gullet, and watch it spill out like braided spaghetti in that red, creamy red red tomato sauce that bears no resemblance to real tomatos anyways?

I need to bleed out the science of over-retention. I need to over-correct the pomulgation of a mastubatory relationship wherein I am the controller – the controller of all the networks to which I am plugged in including

– you
– me-
family
-we are
– family
– you
scene
– we are the queen?

Dipping into that shit, I hold my finger – I cannot even feel my own life slippage. I cannot feel the squirming of my flesh against the ground, but I can notice that my guts are getting dirty. They are there, on the ground, int he dirt – and they are unclean. I may get infected. I may get dirt in my body, and as I wonder these things I dont even realise that Im gone anyways – that I have passed, that no mtter how much dirty is made up into the mud-castle that the breath and brething and inhale exhale of air crisp and clear is only a fragmented mop of fragile hair, brushed and soothed ….

Do you think, that they scream? As their flesh is taken from them? As their pelts are soiled and placed into the feed and ripped and yearned? Do you think that their sceams are heard by the others, on the conveyor belt, back there, knoiwing, knowing that they are nexxt in line? Is hat what this is? Is that what is in the heart? What is in the soul? what is left, buried deep down inside the crowned maiden of my love?

Oh, but maybe i wont feel it, if I lose my sense of touch. If I lose my sense of lust. Having contracted that bacterial leprotic cisternation of sameness – the nerve ending died, and I lied to you all.

I told you, that there was more – when really, there never truly was even the slightest fragment of trust beyond the crust of my fucking diatribe….