When you’re preoccupied, like a moth with the light, we are ‘sacking your life; we are bleeding your pipes. When you’re hooked by the line, by the crook of your spine, we are sparking the knives; we are Frankenstein.
When you’re preoccupied by the junk of your life, we are marking your card, we are catching off-guard. When you’re thanking the Lord for the fat of your land, we are cutting the cord; we are back of the hand. Our love is the love of the loveless. Our tears are the tears of the bird. Our side is the side of the sideshow. And our blood is as good as our word. Dark horses, our handshake is fatal. Our seal is a stamp to the heart. We cut through the din like a rattle. Our violence is closer to art.