Lover, when are going to smash up this system? When are we going to tear down these walls, kick in these doors, and smash these windows? Pulling nails out and pushing staircases in. Wreck the banister and use one of the wooden posts to beat and destroy the furniture. Rip up the paintings on the wall, pull out the drawers of the dressers and stomp out the bottoms, and give me a hand with this tub -- I want to send it flying down the stairs and out the front door into the middle of the streets. And don't forget the spay paint, the booze, and the kerosene.
Never do it orderly or methodically. Let your passion spring forth to your fingers, inspiring your destruction, manifesting your anger. Do it all spontaneously. Use spraypaint to cover the walls with a list of everything that has been denied to you, and then in a rage, grab the crowbar and indiscriminantly impress holes wherever you feel inclined. Before you know it, we'll be dancing with half-empty bottles of flammable liquid and alcohol, filling the rug with these pungent and unnatural odors. Empty the gas cans, and then throw them into the pile in the living room. We have enough kindling, but we've metted out all our pain; we have become exhausted by the intoxication, the tears, this life gnashed against life.
And when the house goes up in flames, my lover, it will take our suffering and hate with it. In one night, we made the rest of our lives a little easier.