Sexton Creeps

INTRODUCTION

Take the bus, a cab, the train, doesn't matter. Or even go by foot. When it rains it is't hard enough. There's many thing you can do, but for the most it's left not done. And those who say it's a choice, they are just fat, spoiled and naive dreaming children. It's no choice to be flogging the dead horse. Which, if we beat it up hard may fall apart, in order that we can start again; like a pack of hungry wolves a deer at sunset on a winter evening. As soon as we take a splinter of bone for our self and suck out the marrow, alone, in a ditch, too soon it's gone, because without the tearing we loose body warmth and the snow falls merciless on our soaked fur. And we make art, and we make music and sometimes the pavement seems like an endless joyful game of goose - it's only when we are on the way, that we calm down for real. But our intentions are feigned and our choices based on a lie. Fuck yourself through a dull existence, in which the trinkets that you bought with hard-earned money shape but a little arbour in which you perform your mating-dance over and over again. The elderly know it, when they try for the last time to put up their stale feathers, awaiting a big nothing. They perceive the world, but trudge through without understanding, until they settle between the things they carefully collected to give away to ungrateful hands of the next generation. They don't deserve pity. It's, like the infant learning to walk, the adolescent maturing, only a preparation for what is coming. The world doesn't know pity. Empathy an urge to survive. The knife that cuts the other, doesn't hurt you after all. We still haven't forgotten how to take pleasure in the suffering of others.