The Spectator

What makes them tick?
happiness is a warm gun
yet
could I really kill
a lack of imagination
pick up a gun and blast away.

help us fill in the already empty places
all will be revealed
nostalgic childish wonderment
put on brave faces
never more themselves than when they're pretending to be someone else.

planes attacked
the recoil of a gun
brain-numbingly cold
ear splittingly noisy
he came out covered in blood

deliberately holding back
a difficult time as he struggled
Did I want to shoot?
my fingers can do it
...no