Anarchy is order. No clean line, no safe design — just the pulse beneath the glove. We are anarchists in love. Anarchy is order. We lean into the fire’s grin. Love is the crime they warned us of, and still we step right in. Two margins touching, never merging. Basement air, old paint, the room a little too near the edge. She held the pamphlets. He held the fever. They knew the cost before they named the breach. You call it damage. I call it a breach. We learn the cost — and we're still out of reach. Anarchy is order. No clean line, no safe design — just the pulse beneath the glove. We are anarchists in love. Anarchy is order. We lean into the fire’s grin. Love is the crime they warned us of, and still we step right in. Talk of purity, talk of lines — every bright idea finds its cracks. Mercy and fury at one table, and the city only answers back. We are made of nerve and refusal — paper bombs in a careful hand. We want the world to bend, then heal, to break, then understand. Anarchy is order! No clean line, no safe design — just the pulse beneath the glove! We are anarchists in love! Anarchy is order! We lean into the fire’s grin! Love is the crime they warned us of — and still we step right in! The bomb is love.
