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