La Dispute

We move by instinct, darling
Let our hands be hatchets, let us
Wander blindly, swinging madly
In a forest made of flesh
We move by instinct, darling
Let our eyes like lepers drive
The doubters from our homes, and
Into the bottom of the sea
And we speak in signals, darling
Let our smoke stitch pictures, let us
Twist in patterns, dull the horror
Of a city still on fire
For we are like medics handling
Suicide by cyanide with our bleeding
Fingers. Let us suffer