Kurrs' Digital Tapestry of Words

Originally Uploaded here

All my muscles creak and groan, but with the certain softness of flesh. I try, and reach inside myself to find the spine of metal, the brutal iron gears of persistence and find... nothing. Just simply bone, cartilege, and the lengths and lengths of nerve and muscle, organ and liquid. Some humanisation of my nitzchean mythos, the dim divinity of fiction replaced by the certainty of truth.

Four, I roll the number around my hand of my mind. Like a contact juggler, I keep them seperate, the avoid the myth-breaking clink. Gods, they're so very different, and so bloody numerous. Between my life shifting, the sheer quantity of them, a matured sense of simplicity, and the primacy of my lost and that of my found, I don't do much. Much. Still, like magnetism, I fly into your arms, and I'm not being specific. I can't help myself, I try to be polite but I want it so very badly. Like heroin, I suppose.

This album is so amazing.

Currently Listening: Sweatshop Union - Water Street
Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 10:01 PM | Permalink

There were times when you reached out; fragile electric fingers reaching with words balanced and run along wire. A familiar rhetoric of emptiness and self-loathing. In those moments, I remember fanciful notions of dispelling them, running my fingers along your long neck and watching your face implode into a smile at the feeling. Some mixture of ticklish sexual reverie and recklessly abandoned uncertainty. But it was a fancy, little more.

I'm undone by a collision of chronology and situation. Maybe you do look at me the way I think you do. Maybe you don't only think about what I say and that the quiver I detect is there: that I sing your note and you begin to shake ever so slightly that maybe you don't even know you are. But the truth, in this instance, doesn't matter as much. More, I am undone by its result, by the whats instead of the becauses or the whys.

I want you. I'm not even sure I do, and perhaps you are, on some level, a statement of hubris on my part, but I resonate for you. You cut me to the quick, my darling, even if you might not cut deeply. I can feel myself giving up, not because of you, but because of her and her and it. I hope I'm not, because that means I'm worse off that I like to be. Broken, and not even able to enjoy the liminality that dysfunction brings.




Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 12:48 AM | Permalink