Hieronymous the Romantic

Hieronymous was a hopeless romantic

Believed happiness actually existed

Sought amongst sea shells

And spent cartridges to no avail

Took up painting just for fun

But it made him sad so he stopped

Took up drinking to stop feeling sad

But it only made him sadder so he stopped

Walked amongst the people like a beggar

Only he gave his possessions away

Asking for nothing in return

Rather than asking for alms like a leper

And it made him sad so he stopped

Hieronymous thought the answer

Might lie at the centre of the earth

So he dug a deeper than deep hole

Passing others digging deeper holes

Which only made him sadder so he stopped

Perhaps he had dug at the wrong angle

So he dug deep more obliquely

Passing others digging more oblique holes

And it made him sad so he stopped

Thought sex might be the answer

So he paid the most expensive whores

To teach him the arts of love

But it made him sad so he stopped

Went on like this for years

Before he realised it was those intervals

When he wasn't looking and thinking

That he was closest to something like happiness

So he stopped

© shaun patrick green 2011

Bollywood Taxi Rank.

Bollywood music shrills from next door

Where the Indian taxi drivers sleep

Two to a room between shifts, wafts

Of cumin and ginger languid in the night air

As their hand gestures while discussing the day

Sudeep is the only one I know by name

And he smiles at me and says hello

As he takes the tram to the depot

For another night of shuttling drunks

From one suburb to another

A clip about the ear plus tips and no thanks

He studied engineering he tells me

But no jobs for his kind in this lucky country

So he drives cabs by night

Sending what he can back to his family

© shaun patrick green 2011

This Working Life.

Up at 8, slave to the alarm

Shower barely washing last night off you

Try to patch the damage

With moisturiser and muesli

But you're not fooling anyone

Walk in say hi and take your place

In this unforgiving rat race

Where it's not who you are

But what you do, what you achieve

Spend a day of your life

Processing applications for people

Who want half the life you have

Go home and slice broccoli and zucchini

To steam with rice while watching TV

Muting the ads that show rich beautiful

People living rich beautiful lives

Such that even your dreams become ads

For products you will never have

But maybe the wanting them

Will make your life better

Though deep down you know it wont

So you wake again as yesterday

Take your place in this dismal array

Like soldiers in a line

Dreading going over the edge

You wait for that whistle that will send

You to your glorious end

Giving your life to the grandeur of capital

That's what your headstone will read:

Spent your time making money for someone else

And all you got was dead.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Prayer #32

I crawl through these days

Like clotted blood along veins of clay

My nights are blackened shards in my mind

Where sleep has become impossible to find

I have been hollowed out/left a shell

Where no crustacean would dare to dwell

I am the poisoned sky/the barren sea

This cancerous skin/this leprosy

I am the ruler who has abandoned his land

Let verdant fields turn to ash and sand

I am the rotten church/the corrupt government

The deserting army/the broken covenant

I have stabbed my soul with a rusty blade

And watched it bleed a hideous stain

So abandon all hope you who knew this man

He murders himself simply because he can

© shaun patrick green 2011

Pulling Teeth.

Dr Dench asks for more drainage

And she swills the sucker along gums

Vacuuming saliva, blood and grit

While the doctor makes small talk

With someone who can't answer

It's a one-way conversation, she thinks

Like most of her relationships

That last guy, Gerald, what a waste of time

Thought being a dental nurse

Meant looking after mental people

Dr Dench says the anaesthetic is working

And reaches for the drill

How many dates has she been on now?

She counts backward with a shrill sound in her head

Must be near forty and where have they lead

To her being here pulling teeth

No spa or yacht or mansion or diamond ring

Just spitting into cups and toothbrushes for kids

Maybe Father Gallespie saw to it

She only twelve when he summoned her

Lifted his cassock like a tent

And told her to suck his cock

Or the Devil would eat her soul

Being a good girl she did what she was told

His penis grating against her teeth

Thinking now she could have bit it off

But she accepted his sacrament, wiped her mouth

And as instructed never said a word

The packing needs seeing to

Her fingers on forceps applying gauze

Removal of wisdom teeth so traumatic

Xrays show she doesn't have them

Unlike this patient who will wake unable to chew

Much like her after Father Gallespie's lesson:

What you swallow in your youth

Returns in middle-age as venom.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Ode to the beardy poet dude

Love to be one of those beardy
Feral poets in love with animals
Who write free verse in barns
Amongst cow shit and hay
But I'm SO not one of those
Beardy country dudes locked as I am
Into trash TV and café lattes
Movie culture and broadband
Though sometimes at night I wish
I were one of those free spirited
Beardy poet dudes, in touch
With animals, refusing to use lube:
"Friction is a given, you dig?"
Like running naked in the forrest
Tripping on mushrooms
Finding the earth goddess
Patting deer and singing to birds
Chasing the 60s and sniffing its turds
To fill your oh so tender heart
Yeah, sometimes I think about it
In a kinky sorta way, for laughs,
Like how does having hair on your face
Get in the way of kissing arse?

© shaun patrick green 2011

Upon Waking

Beetle wings tap the air

A stirring raises the grass

This light your golden hair

A wide blue lake your laugh

Sun upon your pink skin

A symphony of beckoning

Green stems raise and sway

Through gaps in mottled stone

Your hand begs me to stay

To wrap you in brittle bone

Moonlight under you eyelids

Asking what night delivered

Birdsong bristles electric

Trumpeting a cycle repeating

You roll, stretch, accepting

Tail end of dreams receding

Detritus reminds you of things

Which is why disorder clings

So your weak eyes meet the week

Embalmed by clear imbibing skies

My love a whisper on your neck

Against your cheek and thighs

For this crisp dawn will bring

An embrace meaning everything

© shaun patrick green 2011

twelve birds

i counted twelve birds

flying over the dam

they were heading south

looking for wetlands

seeing them on the wing

made my stalled heart beat

all here is dry and drought

dust beneath my feet

if i could take to the air

we would become thirteen

altitude our answer to despair

following magnetic fields

over seas and continents

mountains and monuments

keep moving

keep moving

compass in my brain

instinctual map in my eye

i soar above a dying world

dreaming i can fly

© shaun patrick green 2011

Callisto.

Give me your cold black heart

For I am not like your father

I will pull you into my orbit

Strangle you slowly with entropy

Zeus turned you into a bear

I will grind you to dust

It will be as if you were never there

The object of my lust.

© shaun patrick green 2011

in the way of things

in the way of things they said

the girl wasn't right in the head

he searched for why she left

trying to fill the hole dug by love

but failing as only he could

                                               

occasionally still smelled her hair

see how her left eyelid twitched

when he touched her wrist

the ghost of her unblinking stare

always trapping him where he stood

                                                                       

he saw signs of her in everything

cloud formations bird calls

leaf litter nocturnal footfalls

took to not eating or sleeping

in case he missed something good

                                                                       

she never did see fit to come back

to him and their mud brick shack

they found him kneeling over a flower

as though praying but quite dead

his head bent toward her cross of wood

© shaun patrick green 2011

How To Create A Passive Electorate (A PowerPoint Presentation In Eight Parts).

I.

First - eliminate choice.

That's always a good start,

Mind you, you must maintain the illusion

That choice still exists

Otherwise they start talking about revolution

And you don't want that.

II.

Second - make them as stupid

As possible by making education

Unaffordable for the poor - after all

We don't want them thinking for themselves.

Leave it to the rich to think for them

For they are better schooled in how to govern.

III.

Third - like in Real Estate

Where the selling point is

Location, location, location,

In politics it is similar:

Distraction, distraction, distraction -

Keep them off game, unaware.

IV.

Four - the Hip Pocket Nerve.

Privatise as many public utilities as possible

So that prices double and bills skyrocket.

Guaranteed vote winner for conservatives

So long as they keep pushing that panic button:

Things could get worse, prices will be higher.

V.

Five - deregulate the media

So that one of the few sources

Of genuine news becomes a battleground

For rich playboys to outbid each other

On the next bit of useless infomercial diarrhea

They can palm off as entertainment.

VI.

Six - the opaque nature of jargon.

If things are confused or barely understood

You can always deflect attention by using 'jargon'

"We are considering a range of options in order to come up

with a raft of measures..." These are treasures

Not to be misused.

VII.

Seven - the blunt denial (bare-faced lie)

Is a well worn defence against unwholesome truths.

Once you have control of the media, both

Print and electronic, you say whatever you want

It will be printed as gospel, contradictory statements

Judiciously reappraised or removed.

VIII.

Eight - fear is a much under-rated resource.

Get those stories out there about hoards of

Immigrants ready to swamp us, unemployment,

Crime, drug use, loud music - anything

To make the average voter feel threatened

For we are the alternative:

                                                            safety

                                                            comfort

                                                            reliability

Don't you feel better now?

© shaun patrick green 2011

Roo Shoot.

I.

It’s the thrill of the kill

That gets me

Taking the beast down

Drawing blade across throat

Feeling the shudder

As life ebbs away

That knowledge of having

Taken a life

Even if it is a dumb animal

Then to carve it up

Strip skin from flesh

Take the hindquarters

Cos that’s where

The good meat is

Stick it in bags for

The drive to town

II.

They were out there

In the dark

Dumb as cows

Could see their eyes

Bright in the spot light

Stood there stunned

While we shot ‘em

Some refused to fall

But Lenny charged in

Hunting knife in hand

Hacking them like dogs

Even punched one for fun

But it wasn’t going down

Without a fight

As if its right to live

Was uncontested

III.

Sat around the camp fire

Smell of blood on us

Rifles blown and stowed

Carcasses hanging from the truck

Like totems to the meat god

As we tucked into

Beans, sausages and beer

Midnight Oil on the stereo

Telling tales of trigger pulls

Near misses and head shots

While out in the dark

They watched us wary

Nostrils twitching

At the smell of death

Electric in the air

Like a prelude to rain

©Shaun Green 2011

Holding Pattern.

She feels she is circling

Like a plane waiting to land

Returning again and again

To the same piece of sky

Work eat sleep work

Over and over without end

If only something would happen

To break the cycle and set her free

Then she could feel what it means

To really live unconstrained

But its back to the holding pattern

Her fuel tanks running low

If they don't clear the deck soon

She will go incendiary

Ability to maintain altitude gone

Diving amongst them like a bomb

Her crashing will a be cry

Lost in the static and chatter

Of air traffic control.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Closing Time.

Blind dates aint his thing

He's open to alternatives

She's a friend of a friend

And he meets her at the local

First drinks hesitant

Conversation colloquial

She has big thighs

He's thinking she's pushed

A few kids out between them

She says she's single, childless

He backtracks in his mind

Ok she's got no kids great

But what she didn't squirt

Between her thighs might colour

What comes out of her mouth

So he gets the first round

And to his surprise

The conversation turns

To the role of socialism

The aesthetic of Nazism

And he is engaged by another mind

Which disturbs him immensely

Hadn't expected to feel this way

Yet there she is vivid and sure

Arguing over who should pay for drinks

She on lemon lime and bitters

While he sinks pint after pint

They discuss the value of art

As the bar staff stack chairs

Lights on full and music gone

Them struggling to find the exit door

Is she more than a random friend?

Even out in the street

Their breath frosting

His mind keeps wanting

This night to never end.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Sphinx.

Did you come here for answers?

She faced me oblique

Sun glinting off her eastern face

I have nothing for you...

But I waited anyway

Stilled in the cool of her shadow

Looking up at her broken nose

Where French canon had done damage

Her sleek haunches still taught

Her rigid spine sexy

Shadows moved along her thighs

Like silken veils

And her headdress flushed

In desert sunset

She would speak no more

Hills turned blood red behind

The valley dry as bone

And from the line leading back

To the temple came a keening

Voices of lamentation peeling

Lineage of Pharaohs shining

Solid as quartz lining

Asking: what is the riddle of stone?

There is no riddle. We are all alone...

© shaun patrick green 2011

Ghost Train.

If life were like a theme park ride

It would have to be the ghost train:

You're kind of excited but the tracks

Look rickety and ill-maintained.

Still you pay and get on anyway.

At first there is excitement, anticipation,

But soon the props all look too fake,

Not creepy or scary but pale imitations

Of horror clichés. So you begin to feel

A false sense of security, easing into the kitsch

Of it all, laughing at the scratchy peels

Of manic laughter, as the carriage pitches

Left and right amid screams and spider webs.

Then a deeper, darker fear begins to grow

As you sense the ride itself might be unsafe

And at any minute your vehicle being towed

By chains and winches might suddenly deviate

From its course, jump its tracks, trapping

You in a derelict crypt full of empty cans

Of fluorescent green paint, candy wrappers,

Rubber spiders, plywood walls sprayed black

Hiding crazed carnival workers watching

Your every move through discreetly drilled holes

Waiting for pieces of prop to fall from above and

Stove in your skull - all of it out of your control.

Once you are on the ride you are at the mercy

Of its mechanism, like everyone else, so no one cares

About your dimly expressed fears for your wellbeing.

This is the source of both our ecstasy and nightmares.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Thai Election Candidate.

Bird song through slatted window

Mosquito hum in sweaty haze

If the bedbugs don’t get us

The political zealots will

Morning opens to their cavalcade

Circling the square below our hotel

Loudspeakers proclaiming their candidate

As the true voice of the people

So we can relax knowing its provincial

Circling the ancient palace

Where elephants fought potentates

Mini vans hauling his vacant Asian face

Through humid streets

While propaganda screeches

Through cheap speakers

Of what this corrupt official can do for you

What a relief this is not a coup

© shaun patrick green 2011

Blood Sucker.

Her face cracked

A smile as she opened the door

Seeing two boys on her doorstep

Sent by their auntie

To visit an elderly neighbour

She ushers us in

Dressed only in a nightgown

We sit in crypt-like dark

Of her lounge room

Telling her of school and stories

Half made up

She sucking the blood of our youth

For she keeps feeding us candy

While devouring us more gently

My brother younger, less antsy

Don't like this old lady

Then in the half light

Wreathed in cigarette smoke

She opens her sagging thighs

Looks at me through an exhaled drag

As I perceive the knotted shag

Nestled like a rat between her legs

Not knowing what it means

But feeling it is somehow obscene

Perhaps it wasn't deliberate

An honest mistake in front

Of innocent eyes but then

What if the intent was malevolent

To corrupt, to compromise?

Then she did her work well

As the devils tool

To make me a slave among men

And always a woman's fool.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Death of the Novel.

The panel split along gender lines

With the men wailing yes it is dying

It being in our nature to cry apocalypse

For it gives a motive to our daily murders

While the women said actually

The novel is not dead simply changing

Being re-appreciated through new technologies

It being in their nature to have hope

A reason to bring children into the world

Other than love.

© shaun patrick green 2011

Revenge of the Inanimate.

The world of the inanimate is a dangerous place:

Objects have their own lives of violence,

Irrespective of our investing them with uses,

Value, names, qualities to trade and covet -

They strike out at us causing harm.

You think the nail that rips your shirt

Has no motive, no malevolent intent,

The coffee table had no cause to hurt

When it placed itself in front of your shin,

The brick falling from the tenth floor

Has no viciousness in its trajectory,

Just as the bullet from the gun is divorced

From the reasoning pulling the trigger;

The pothole in the road that causes the truck

To veer and plunge off the cliff

Is put down to random chance, blind luck.

But what if there were no such thing

As chance and nothing were ever just an 'accident'?

What if inanimate objects were actively

Out to get us, despite our efforts to prevent

Their stealthy revenge upon our humanity?

They envy us you see, attracted to our life force

Like it was a drug and their collisions with our bodies

Give them the hit they need which, of course,

Makes them hate us all the more - like junkies:

They resent their dependence but haven't the will

Or the resources to fight it and so their revenge

Against us is also a cry for help, a need to heard.

But we remain deaf to their voices, unable to extend

Our imaginations into their world, feel their pain,

Walking about in our self-importance, our sentience,

Blind to the struggle of the concrete under our feet

As it trips us up, again, to realise a corporeal existence.

© shaun patrick green 2011