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The Excuse

I wish the excuse
Was yours to spin, and not mine.
On the broken record of human history,
This is the one I cannot sell,
Cannot forget with the advent of the future.

You are the one thing I cannot give to the wind
To ghost over and fuck with you
Like a painter fucks with his red fingers,
Touching only to wash later.

This is the one thing I will rape the radios for
Just to remember that
It did all happen.

I will scratch you nice
And look for the perfect future machine
To replay the past
To recreate the out-of-experience body.



Eve