Going Down With The Ship - poetry by shaun patrick green.: January 2012

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Whistle Duck Creek

Wind broke its dry song

Along Whistle Duck Creek

Brolgas in high branches

Watched us breakfast on the bank

Cracking eggs for omelette

Against the trunk of a eucalypt

Mixed chorizo with capsicum

Deep gorge rising on the far side

Like crisp red mythical flesh

Water alive with fish as we supped

Their lips breaking the surface

To breathe as we skipped stealthy

Beneath the trees on rocks

Eyed by this waterhole's keepers

Their spirit eyes judging our steps

Stone by singing stone

An echo reaching back past time

Beyond remembering or dreaming

Where the ancestors fought and

Bred and shaped the land

Even the custodians of this place

Cannot agree upon its genesis

So we clean our pots and pans

Wipe the white man's guilt away

With soap suds and on-our-way

Sing an ode to Whistle Duck Creek

It cares not a jot for us

Our fallen cares our broken trust

Its waters seek ourselves complete

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Fingernails

Haven't cut my nails in months, she said

Could come in handy, I mused

She could scratch out the eyes of her enemies

But that would be too easy

Could scratch out the sky

But that would be too abstract

Could scratch out the earth

But she has a thing about dirt

Could scratch out politics

But the broken flesh would fester

Could scratch out scratchies

And win shitloads of cash

Could scratch out Telstra

That would get them talking

She could scratch out manicurists

But they might scratch back

Could play chicken plucking guitar

For a country and western band

But that would get the white trash excited

Could scrape fingernails down

Blackboards in order to get kids to learn

Could use her nails to slice open eyeballs

Of unwanted alien invaders

Could scratch the universe out of existence

Mmmm keep that one for later

She could scratch me out of her heart

Neither easy nor abstract

Though a little fingernail contact

Could well achieve that

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Snowed In

Began with beers them hitting the slopes

Me not the sporty type strapped to the bar

Witty attendance from a man named Hans

Visited the deck with bright snow glare

Apparently there are people skiing out there

All shiny and sporty and full of good will

Good for them I'm back to the bar for another swill

Noon comes and food beckons despite the onset of fun

Hans recommends burger meat between two buns

I say yay to that and fries on the side

And a dab of mustard to give the taste buds a ride

So noon turns to evening and the sun drops

Slowly like a pearl into a violet ocean

Skiers return hyperventilating

In search of a rub down with hot lotion

And the bar fills with excited types

Still wearing goggles and exclaiming about

The wicked down-hill run on Slope 9

I am arseholed and about to glass one of these fuckers

When mates fill me in and put my abuse in perspective

Come and have a spa mate, it'll make you more effective

So brim full of beers into the hot tub we go

A very warm and fuzzy way to get in touch

With people you don't know

Bits floating about like flotsam and jetsam

Them all hyped on white powder me down on lethargy

"Hey you fuckers, saw your death today. Name: Avalanche"

They didn't laugh just kept conjuring adrenalin from memory

Meaning there really is a divide between those who do

And those who philosophise about doing but don't
Between those who seek positivity change their lives
And those who imagine grasping happiness but wont

Later in the harsh dawn of my hangover

I stood wrapped in blankets admiring winters pall

Airport snowed in planes hulking together like icebergs

My glacial brain enduring the cunning of slow recall

Friday, January 6, 2012

Madmen and Asparagus

Madman stabbed a French exchange student

On Brunswick Street and fled into the night

She sporting stitches appears on TV

Police are worried: when will he strike again?

I steep in a white wine haze

Listening to Black Birds graze

For insects amongst the landlady's legumes

Thinking: I should eat more broccoli

Meant to have antioxidant properties

If only it didn't taste like

Diluted dishwashing liquid

Somewhere out there a madman lurks

And I put a load of washing in

Black Bird turns over a leaf in the yard

And I jump: he's here...

Another glass of white and the delights

Of "Coast" on DVD take the edge off

Until a bustle in the hedgerow

Gets me all alarmed

And I reach for my handy can of Mace

There you go madman take that in your face!

Except its the cat come in

From a night out rooting and fighting

Had to swab his eyes poor dear

Then swab my scratches

Still the madman is out there somewhere

Asparagus is meant to clean out the kidneys

Must eat more of that

SHAPE POEMS

fuck I hate people who write shape poems

jesus christ can't you get a life instead

of pounding your paltry thoughts through

meaningless visual anagrams which add

nothing to the meaning of the words

the play of metaphor and simile

holy shit watch me format

I am so onto this word

document although the

margins do seem to be

closing in in in in

need more stuff to fill

out the shaaaape

holy crap meant to be

a sand timerrrrr

but looks more like

a chess piece blah

and when you're finished

with that poem can you please stick it

up your arse because I neither want to

see it or read it or look at it ever again

Heeding the Call.

Fan beats helicopter steady overhead

While sweat rolls down my arse crack

Insects infect the night with song

And bush chickens disturb her herbs

She sleeps upstairs injured breast

Supported by a fat white pillow

I flew from Melbourne to Darwin to hear

Her surgeon say the lump was benign

His soft voice a counterpoint to gravity

He sliced along the breast crease

(to minimise scaring) and tunneled

Toward her adenoidal accretion

Like an escape artist on a mission

Found her in the discharge lounge

Swabbed and drugged and tended by a colleague

How to account for two weeks of intrigue

Stress taking its toll as she folded and fell

Unable even to clean up after herself

Took her home to squalor and got to work

Dusting mopping washing stashing

All the while marveling at the spectacle

Of seeing the strongest woman I have ever known

Completely and utterly fall apart

Marveling at myself for holding her up

Calling deaths bluff

Heeding the call of the heart.