twit-twit-twhoo

twitter twitter kitty litter

who is the fairest on the shitter

had a thought to share with you all

through the forum of social media

stroked my cat bought a car

ordered online an auto masturbator

had dinner here ate shit there

took drugs with what's his name

you know that loser what's his name

did a line of coke with shit tits

went to a club got wasted

tweeted shit that got me in trouble

had my pr people seeing double

so now I'm off twitter for good

because like shoes it's all about what fits

those who tweet are twats

those who follow tweets are twits

© shaun patrick green 2011

Find Your Own Way Home

Find your own way home children

Find your own way home

For the government will help you none

Find your own way home

Come across waves as refugees

Find your own way home

Though war and strife tear at your life

Braving the savage seas

A welcoming shore not guaranteed

You bundled with fear and famine

Crying for help from those less needy

So the shore lies resplendent

An infinite horizon of goodness

Only to find another camp

With more modern amenities

Though still the same high fences

As if running from one tyranny

To another were a good deal

You are our conscience and our creed

Find your own way home

Find your own way home children

And in your finding

Find us and be freed

©Shaun Green 2011

Bastard Dog Killer.

The yapping starts again

As on so many nights

And I watch the mongrel

Turn in manic circles

From my first floor window

Wishing it dead

The plan being this

To cross to the flats

Next door and through

Laundry to fence line

And over in one move

Confront the bastard dog

Avoid gnashing teeth

Get a grip

Wring its fucking neck

Then back over the fence

And away

But it all falls apart

Despite the planning

Cos the minute I jump the fence

There he is

Scared shitless

Like me

And I realise

That it’s not his fault

He’s the victim

And so am I

Animals forced to live

In close proximity

Without guidelines

Or agreed upon

Strategies for survival

His fear widened eyes

A human analogue

Of some ancient horror

Like plague or locusts

So I relent

My killing need spent

And withdraw

Defeated again

Both of us trapped now

Awaiting the arrival

Of his owner.

©Shaun Green 2011

autopilot

the road paves the way

you have no say

taken by a force outside yourself

and wrung like a mannequin

your are manoeuvred

into position

do this be that

the good son

the kind and understanding one

shake the hand

kiss the arse

puckered and hard

and smile - always smile

that vapid symptom of acceptability

sugar-coated in inevitability

while you glide on

someone else steering your wheel

a missile in a massive universe

guided by autopilot

© shaun patrick green 2011

Boredom.

The weed is blowing his head off

Still he takes another toke

Whiskey added to the brew

His dealer generous to a fault

Even offers him a bed

But the road beckons

Another night to been seen through

And he’s out and driving

Lights turning purple, pink, blue

Intense colours without meaning

And he keeps on driving

Seeking out motels

Where the straight might mean leaning

If he lies in bed

Eyes glued to the immobile fan

Waiting for shit to happen

Something

Anything

Maybe here dreams will come true.

©Shaun Green 2011

Aussie Girl.

Sperm in your eye

Grit in your teeth

You'll carry on

Wise cracking and chipper

Cos you're an Aussie girl

Drinking Big M's

Eating Dim Sims

Bikini clad parked

On the bonnets of old Holdens

Or bouncing in the back

Of some surfies Sandman

Lithe brown and loquacious

Nefertiti in a two piece

Blonde and rough as guts

Smoke a joint drink a beer

Talk about cocks while

The bulls play pool

And when the kids arrive

It all turns to shit

Cos he don't want

To fuck you anymore

Off chasing younger tail

You at home with brats

Try snatching a man with that

Tits sagging

Bum getting bigger by the year

How long can you hold out?

It's a question you ask yourself

In the night, manless, alone

For a heart that set itself so free

There is now no place to call home

© shaun patrick green 2011

in the valley of the shadow

she looked thinner than I remembered

though it had been a while

much to my shame but I have

always been totally useless

when it comes to family

I don't feel those blood ties

tugging as they do at my kin

must have read too much

french philosophy and cast off

such sentimentality as bourgeois

we are born we live we die

we do not get to choose

unlike my brother who drove us

whose sense of duty I thought

somewhat overdeveloped

but maybe that's what comes

from having brought life into the world

we navigated lifts and sterile halls

counting numbers like reading charts

and there my grandmother was

a proud outspoken woman

brought down by a simple fall

her knee fractured and bound

gently sipping a cup of tea

carefully eating a micro-muffin

introducing us to her room mate

elsie whose grandkids were visiting

so it made it hard for hard-of-hearing

nan to hear what we were saying

never mind she prattled on about

cousin this and auntie that

and her brother who had died

just closed down in a cottage in yorkshire

not even bothering to get out of bed

preferring to fade away like a memory

rather than rage against

the dying of the light

so I asked why - why did he give up?

well he never married and he was

always the favourite uncle - uncle tim!

the kids used to scream - drive faster!

he had some friends who he used to

go away with on weekends but they died

suddenly and that was when

i think he began to feel really lonely

and he just closed himself off

didn't ask for help just gave up

my father was the same

wouldn't talk or ask for help...

a nurse interrupted

to ask if anything was needed

clear this up? asked nan

pointing to empty tea cup and

folded micro-muffin wrapper

not my job said the nurse and walked away

you boys should go said nan

you have more interesting places to be

is there anything we can do we asked

get you something anything?

no no I'm fine

shifting her damaged leg on its cushion

and plucking at her hospital gown

as if modesty were possible in this place

they're moving me to rehab tomorrow

so at least there I'll be able to have

a stiff gin and tonic when I'm settled in

so we left feeling useless and bereft

like we had missed something

some deep life lesson meant to be imparted

by those wiser and more well lived

maybe it was that we all end up in hospitals

staffed by nurses immersed in demarcation disputes

next to people called elsie whose noisy kids

steal our oxygen and ear time

clinging to our self-respect and independence

so that when our grandchildren come to visit

we don't infect them with our fear

the fear that death creeps through our bones

we can hear it coming closer in the sleepless night

and no matter how proud and brave we are

death will always win this fight.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Fucked Liver For Sale.

Fuck my liver

Fuck good living

This is coping

By whatever means possible

Meaning those cheapest

And easiest to hand

We weren't meant for this

The 9 to 5 grind

Churning out shit so

That they may live while we die

Working ourselves to death

So that one per cent

Of this worlds population

Can control ninety per cent

Of its wealth

How did we get lulled into

This lucid slavery?

How did they convince us

This was right and good

That making money for the man

Was the way to happiness?

It was fear,

That most basic of human motivators

Fear of famine/fear of plague

Fear of poverty/fear of old age

Fear of loss/fear of fall

Fear of poverty/fear of the pall

The stigma attached to failure

You see now how they offset

Their shortcomings as representatives

By pointing to the vagueries

Of the markets

And how much would your liver

Be worth in such a bearish climate

Could you even put a figure on it

If you had to sell it

Fucked as it is?

© shaun patrick green 2011

The Bliss of Amplifier Hiss

Contemporary music is too easy to produce

Its pasteurised for the iPod generation

No digital artifacts in the mix

Clear and compressed to the Max

But whatever happened to the real thing?

Electricity humming through valves

Feedback and amplifier hiss

To clean this all up is to gut music

Make it a pre-packaged commodity

Rather than an intense live experience

I want my music bloody and dirty

To be able to hear feedback

And the vocalist sounding like

He's singing in a toilet

Wailing like a banshee to the muse

Of his own blood stained vomit

While the guitarist smacked out of his head

Strikes chords no one has ever heard before

And the drummer only barely keeps the beat

Making the bass player scowl because

He's the only serious member of the band

All of them trying to be the Velvet Underground

How did they make that sound

Of greatness always falling just short?

© shaun patrick green 2011

Obama-itis.

Australia has a nasty case of Obama-itis

Literally, inflammation of the Obama

Characterised by excessive itching of the

Obama area and consequent irritation due

To constant scratching of said area

Application of moisture to the affected

Area is prescribed whether by mouth or tongue

Or clinical swab dipped in nurse sweat

And /or glitter to reduce swelling

In extreme cases cortisone is prescribed

To reduce swelling or else ice packs

And an injection of ANZUS up the anus

May help to reduce symptoms

Of screaming and excessive flag waving
Prognosis is fair to good for recovery

with 30% chance of relapse

Patient discharged 0105 hours EST

Accompanied by ticker tape parade
And official motorcade

© shaun patrick green 2011

fiery the angels fell

as cinders spat from heaven

coal scarred and priceless

they rained down gods hate

on greed and recklessness

bashed into rock and shattered

leaving shards all around

like great heavenly car crashes

feathers littering the ground

this last battle was costly

for it slipped us under the yoke

of bankers and stock brokers

and speculators the new gods

damned are we without angels

for they monitored the guilty

made us feel justice is possible

gave the corrupt reason for honesty

damned are we without angels

they were our only transcendence

now all is derivatives and bonds

and stocks and indexes and debentures

© shaun patrick green 2011

The Black Seed.

Common in the earth as dirt,

The black seed stirs and rises,

Seeking light as if it were a right.

No sound to mark its rupture

As the roots bare down into ground,

Causing a stir amongst the worms,

Its only sign above an indigo flower

So prized for its taste and perfume

That it beguiles Emperors and sends

Poets into ecstasies of praise.

Only when armies are raised

To go to bloody war for this gewgaw

Is the black seed's work done.

It lives to poison all of mankind

For in that black mass it finds

A most rich and fertile soil:

The hearts and minds of men

For its dark sap to spoil.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Life Studies

"If you want to paint fruit properly," she said

"Just think of a woman's body." So I did.

I painted oranges and grapefruits with

The lustre and sheen of sweat smeared breasts

But she thought my work lacked sublety

I painted rock melons and mangoes with

The curve and patina of post-coital thighs

But she thought my work too sentimental

I painted rambutans and jackfruit with

The prickly verisimilitude of the pubis

But she thought my work too clinical

I painted peeled lychees with the wispy

transcendental aura of eyes after crying

But she thought my work bordered on kitsch

I painted peeked raspberries like nipples

Inflamed and raised in all their tumescence

She looked aghast: "What the fuck is this?"

It was then I realised that painting fruit

Was a singularly feminine experience:

Don't think of a woman's body but think of

How a woman thinks of her own body...

Being obviously of the wrong gender

I gave up painting fruit and started on skies.

"If you want to paint skies properly," she said

© shaun patrick green 2011

Hardboiled.

Did I pour my heart out?

In bleeps and bloops and blahs

She might have thought so

But she was already walking

Away from me in a black raincoat

On a wet night downtown

So existential I could have wept

But I didn't because well

"Tears in rain," right?

Yet there was this beebop rhythm

In my heart that wouldn't stop

High hats hissing in swing time

Snares flaming in triplets

All off the beat while her feet

Walked away asking me to chase

Her heels clicking a strict 4/4

While my heart scatted no/more/no/more

I almost turned and followed

But drew back on my cigarette

Turned up my collar

Pulled down my hat

Heading like a Coltrane solo

Toward booze, endless night

And dark abyss with saxophone

© shaun patrick green 2011

Sucking Blood

Is it me? Am I just not feeling the vibe?
Or are Vampire Weekend the most over-rated band of all time?
I am hearing Paul Simon ripped off wholesale but then
Pop music is an exercise in barely concealed canabalism
I hear The Beatles, The Stones, The Kinks being
Rerecorded, repackaged, with 5.1 remastering
Are we living in an age of infinite musical regress?
I look at bands like Vampire Weekend and think: yes
When you are pandering to an amnesiac generation
Everything is new no matter how old it actually is
So music once the voice of a generation has become
A feedback loop of undifferentiated consumption
Sustaining the vampires at the top of the chain
For whom sucking blood is more than just a game.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Slaves to Keira Knightley Unite!

Gutted and small after too much living

We take shelter in TV and booze

Wishing well the life makers

And dream fakers that keep hearts yearning

All those fecund young minds to infect

With that attractive central defect

That happiness is possible

Now I know you say we are old and jaded

Partly true, partly misguided

Because the opposite is true

We see the future and it should not

Be taken lightly - just like Keira Knightley

Sure she can't act but look at those lips

They promise the world but do they deliver?

No! And yet so perfect in so many ways

I will follow her to the end of my days

Like some slavish lapdog and think: yes

This is happiness... this is as good as it gets

© shaun patrick green 2011

Troubadour (for P.J.Harvey)

So few troubadours

Shake an Island to its quick

But this slight black-haired

Goddess with angel voice

Cuts to the bone and core

Of her motherland without

Fear or favour or schtick

Almost a wrenching honesty

That battles against politics

And the mercantile fervour

Of our blighted age

In a folk tradition

Believing in the changing

Power of song she belongs

Quite among yet outside

Almost puritanical in her vision

I know no other contemporary voice

Who can say: I sing for Britain

© shaun patrick green 2011

China.

Mao claps his oversize hands

And shapes move like continents

Every little red book a sepulchre

Every bail of wheat a victory

The triumph is over ourselves

Values are not universal

They need to re-defined and re-learned

So a people is re-fashioned and confirmed

As consuming pets unquestioning

Our work has bought us what we earned

Mao's dream was about production

But consumption is the great leveler

His dragon is swallowing its own tail

And no longer is he master

© shaun patrick green 2011

Clarity

She lay dying in a mess of tubes

Wasted scarecrow thin and bald

Wore a scarfe to hide her lack of hair

But the laugh was still there

Deep and hearty as a tolling bell

Said she didn't mind going

For life had been brief but interesting

I found this flippant and scientific

But maybe she knew better

Counting each day and weighing its gain

With a preciousness not ours

We who have health and live

And take for granted those dear

Perhaps it is in the fading light

That we see unhindered and clear

© shaun patrick green 2011

Complicity.

Did I bring a ring to guide you home

Or spin a web to write a poem?

You look at me with eyes of dread

As if I were your poisoned bed

I fondle you in moments of passion

And you fake pleasure after a fashion

Where exactly did we disconnect?

Was it when I decided to reconnect

With a system I loath and despise?

Probably, no doubt there were spies

Who told you of my fatal change of heart

Fortressed you against me from the start

So we simper into the gloom of domesticity

Blaming each other for own complicity

© shaun patrick green 2011

Sunday.

Sweet smell of her in the morning

Over rumpled sheets white wine and sex

Then an impulse to Yum Cha

On Rathdowne Street a fixture

And an unpleasant reminder of her ex

Still the taste of her on my tongue

Sweetened by soy sauce and ginger

And her smile wide over dumplings

Then to the Museum for Tutankhamun

Standing in the line with parents and kids

For some circus side show

Three thousand years old

But it was so much more then that

The beauty and delicacy of their work

Carved into my mind the brevity of life

And the joy of living it with her

© shaun patrick green 2011

Still Life With Bogan And Slag

They’re on the platform

He in tracksuit

Singlet showing tatts

She in tight jeans

Crop top and plats

Accessorised with

Baby in pram wearing

A Hawthorn beanie

Both smoking

He asking for change

She swearing at the kid

To stop crying

I try not to judge

Got a train to catch

They get on and it starts

I get on ahead

But they move from

Carriage to carriage

Begging change

Or Cigarettes

Or beer

In my carriage

They find someone

They know

Who gives them grief

Some deal gone wrong

Money gone astray

Reputations trashed

But she bites first

Calling the accuser

A farken carnt

And you weeeek carnt

Then he chimes in

With yooor a rat mate

A dirty farken rat

Fark you the accused says

How bout I farken

Stab your arse

Cum on, she says,

Afraid to use your fists

You farken weeeek carnt

Accused says yeah, yeah I am,

Bogan boy says

Cmon, bring it on

You farken dog

You’re a gutless carnt

You farken rat

You weeeek dog

And the train rattles on

Riddled with hate

And impotent rage

Carrying its cargo

To the city.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Toll of the Coral Bell.

A bell rings in the deep

Calling turtles home for the lay

As moon speaks

Where squid sleep

Surfacing to spawn and display

In a harlequin hail

Corals join the orgy

Primed by tide and sun

Popping polyps like candy

The reef well begun

Only waters are changing

Warming too fast for ease

Creatures of the deep

Hear different bells

Tolling evolution

Adapt or die Darwinian style

No carillon to appease

And so species decease

Expendable in our eyes

For we ignore the tolling bell

Exploiting the seas gift

Coral bleached laid waste

It warns us of our greed

Changes must be made with haste

Or vengeance will be swift

No bell to toll for our nations

On a planet made sterile

We’re here by nature’s invitation

Even if only for a short while.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Magpie Day

Swooped down from the suburbs for the game

And settled in at Macca's place

He in a loft inner city with wide screen

Beers in the fridge wife outta town

Grand final in style amongst the faithful

Game underway and many beers sunk

Each goal and point applauded

Each bad referee's decision appalling

By the end of it we were so drunk

We didn't even know who'd won

So we smashed out of the flat

And hit the rain slick streets

Cawing club songs and leering

At locals who looked at us like freaks

For all we knew our team had won

And the streets were ours

Flapping our wings stabbing our beaks

As we scavenged in garbage bins

Invisible in this blackest of black nights

Punching heads of the walking dead

These streets are ours

Gained through bragging and fist fights

Brother, these streets are ours

© shaun patrick green 2011

Air in my bones.

How sweet is she that she does breeze through me

Feeling air in my bones like I am Swiss cheese…

She crashes on me like a tsunami

Destroying everything I had built

As a bulwark to her leaving

Waltzing back in as if by divine rite

To claim things not hers, actions and words

Not said and done, no shining light

Nor defusing by interregnum

She climbs my pulpits as conqueror

Though all thought she had been banished

Still she thrives underground

Her face muddied yet true

A shoal of sea-fed followers

Flocking to her school

Where holding ones breath is important

Not doubting the veracity of this virtue

But of people and their need to be

She has yet to come through

Showing to me that she cares for us

Not as patients but people

The confusion is simple and pure

Doctors agree that alcoholism is

Both the answer to the question and the cure.

© shaun patrick green 2011

The Mills.

The Mills is not what she thought

An old shearing shed turned antique shop

Where she expected woolen garments

To keep the vicious winter at bay

Nearly died getting there

As she turned blind in front of

A right-turning lunatic who had right of way

But still made it to the sandy car park

My breakfast in my chest like a wake-up call

So we ascended steps

Wandering through bric-a-brac

Way too early on a Monday morning

But being a public holiday the folks were there

Those fire-stokers, scarf-knitters,

Model-car collectors and

Deceased-estate grifters

Bringing in the bargains for the locals

And the occasional tourist

Yet the place was profoundly out of time

(An analogue of the town itself)

As if you had stepped through the looking glass

And were reviewing history backwards

Through the minutiae of each stall

50s toys, 60s clothes, 70s records,

Each one a time capsule locked into the past

So firmly it made you want to take a shit

Then buy a retro jacket and get the fuck out

At the counter hearty country women served

Persuaded against plastic bags

And over half-rim glasses saw us on our way

With a goodbye and a wave

Withdrawing we felt bereft

Knowing some secret had escaped us

And that despite our purchases

We had skimmed the surface of something

Deep, ancient and intangible

Coming away poorer for knowing nothing

© shaun patrick green 2011