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scene of the time(mr. urfe)

fiction had always applied to us.
to the best of us,
and tricked me into thinking,
(your first touch before your first touch…)

cast-off skin,
hands replayed across various bodies.
counting your mouths….
moist blankets.

every aggregate its negative shapes…
and more than enough rope between us to commit
to reshaping what really happened.

so, we thinks..
how many times have you washed your hands?
when is the write time to right?
it doesn’t have to make sense.

looking out the window,
oh how i love to spy on you,
re-furnishing the coma…
re-organizing the wound…
but it isn’t oddly about you,
you are evenly fucked.

everyone is leaking.
stop it!
everything i know keeps leaking…
bullshit tactics…
and i am there with the bucket and blindfold.



words