What’s A Hunt without Wet Socks?
time is a feature of our minds
it devils fiendish, so to a trapping
we go behind the blinds
ask the only question you really care
about: will they notice me
there’s no shame in abandon
in trudging wild as if urban
is its own language, a dressed
for the camp of it curates beauty
a reel future to shoot in a barrel
war is what we named the scrapping
of humanity, we let it go silently
discomfort in one place increases
motivation: we’ve come to expect it
we’ve measured success in suffering
there’s a howling in the universe
the blindness of what we are astounds
look, they say, at the way they try to stand
up to time’s cruelty: the equation for crossing
between dimensions comes down to simple
tactics: like knowing when to bend
when to fold and how to pair
