Colonial Song.

We’re failing in the heat

Like the first fleet making land

And having to contend with

Tropical torpor

What a burden

And yet we shoulder it each year

Like the dutiful sons of empire

How rich their bounty must have been

To subject us to this torture

Or perhaps it was specially devised

For those of us

Less used to colonial methods

Whereby the blimey is bled out of us

Through sun and dust

And giving the natives blankets

Or beads to blind their disgust

A fine legacy this

The unpreparedness of a conqueror

The dissimilation of a nation

The abnegation of trust

© shaun patrick green 2012

Abigail.

He crept out of the ground like a thief

Dirt under his fingernails, in his hair

Her name carved on his heart with a nail

The woman who had betrayed him, Abigail

Stood in the moonlight, breathing deep

Brushing himself off, spitting black dust

Back from the dead to tell the sad tale

Of how he would murder sweet Abigail

She had bought poison from a procurer

Dosed him twice daily to be sure of demise

But he proved stronger than her potent tale

Surviving the dire love of murderous Abigail

He crawls into her mobile home and sits

Watching her sleep sound as dogs in the night

Willing himself to end the tortured tale

Of the woman betrothed to him named Abigail

She stirs and spies his forlorn spirit

Sitting alone and vengeful in the dark

"You're here to kill me." Got it nailed

The sweet ignorance and bliss of being Abigail

He puts two bullets in her brain

Then climbs back down into his pit

Regretting the day he ever wassailed

The nothingness of sweet sweet Abigail

© shaun patrick green 2012

Boxes

He would miss certain things

The old place did have its charms

Rising damp along the passage

Low ceilings, leaking toilet

But it was real, solid and warm

With a lived-in feel you only get

From old houses with vague histories

The landlady's son had told a story

About how they used to run a sly

Betting shop out the back in the 20s

His grandmother as a young wife

Standing watch out front

Ready to give the signal

If the coppers appeared

When they did there was whistle tooting

And running up and down back alleys

Through the streets of Collingwood

He wraps plates and cups in paper

Considering the fragility

Of ordinary everyday things

How something is lost every time

We move from one place to another

Funny how you don't realise

The amount of 'stuff' you own

Until you have to pack it in boxes

© shaun patrick green 2012

heart of a nation

he looked in her mouth for teeth

but found only broken bones

battered wives, dreams of children

in her eyes he saw profound grief

secret arms deals, catholic guilt

many centuries of corruption

perhaps she could be fixed, he thought

and sent her to expensive doctors

filling their every prescription

but the drugs didn't work, never do

her hair a mess of secret deals, bribes

dreams of mass destruction

he felt himself begin to change too

his cheeks swamp-like, mushy to touch

soggy with political affiliations

his legs brittle as ethnic cleansing

back spasming with corporate greed

and ineffectual administrations

ears clogged by nationalist fervor

bowels stopped up by disillusionment

scalp itchy with frustration

doctors unable to define their condition

the common 'malaise', highly contagious

a sickness at the heart of a nation

© shaun patrick green 2012