The weather may be cold and the ground more treacherous then usual.
But we all still walk while The World has fun. 

Like a punk in a brawl.
Like kids spitting on a grave.
Like torture. Like prison.
Like murder. Like rape.
Like rejecting immortality.
Like killing a lover.
Like swatting a fly.
Like giving your heart to another. 

The World is Anton Chigurh but The World is alive.

Kicks out of destruction.
The permanent, life changing thrill. 
The author has a gun. 
There is blood on his page.
But he keeps his hands clean to shroud what he kills. 

English advice is blind to The World.
Complaints about trauma, multiplied beyond imagination elsewhere.
England is oblivious to it’s luck, too drunk to talk. 

Post Thatcher, Griffin, Bush and Blair.
Post Cancer, Aids, Disease and Nuclear.
Post Jesus, Hitler, Hussein and God.
Post Ripper, law, beliefs and the MoD.
Pre racial equality and social acceptance.
Pre homosexual marriage and disabled integrity.
Pre free speech and Martin Luther-King.
Pre music, drugs, sex and intelligence. 

We are canaries that lost what they owned. 

Alone, stoned and aware, we’re a breed of our own.
Our words left in the dark, in fear of love. 
A love thats unknown. 

Please don’t do this, express what you mean.
Snow falls for a reason, your childhood won’t leave.
Fresh foot prints on the ground, the mud still managed to cling on. 
Trapped in the grooves of my boot, fate will carry me home.
I destroy the beauty she created with my tainted souls. 

Whatever nature intended was broken by Science, Education and Religion.
We fucked it up. 

But in truth we both create and destroy.
Hand in hand, we have learnt to enjoy.
Pain seems sweeter even through youth.
Sticks replaced by guns, both pointed, aimed and swung with the same malice. 

Only the author can shoot.
His trigger was pulled before we even read the title.
A book for himself. A diary for us.
He knows the outcome, the climax.
We can only document the past.
One copy. One day at a time. 

It will always take two, when at war with The Earth.
Both will eventually die, just as they both gave birth. 

My shoe, her dirt, the white. 
We’re together, even at night. 
So surely I can be happy?
Tell me I can sleep tight.