James Told Me That Stuff Actually Works

In the basement mixing medicine,
next to a bathtub loaded with nitro-glycerine.
Glass beakers alphabetised and shattered,
our faces are beaten and battered.

They’ve always told me I was reckless,
though I’ve never once been called feckless.
Dog's blood runs like a river in the gutters,
and your name is a word they don't dare utter.

I’ve got an anarchist’s cookbook and a plan,
and you’ve got nothing but the lies of man.
These pavements crack like our dying skin,
while children are eating out of your bins.

Half of us are too fat to touch our toes,
but I’ve got enough powder to blow more than a nose.
I’ve got pipe bombs and pipe dreams,
And cyanide pills sewn into my sleeves.