Floating Face Down.

In the waters eye

You move like blood

A slow blue creep

Out of liquid

I wonder at your

Deeper chemistry

Whisper of palms

Witches breath

You talk of death

Skin cool to touch

In fever dreams

You visit and sit

Like a clot

At the end of our bed

And will not leave

I cannot sleep

Your hand is empty

Tired of trying

To grasp eternity

There is no love

In this cold place

Only memory

Where I see you

Face down in the pool

Of your infidelity

© shaun patrick green 2014

in the shit

i am through telling this computer

what to do and i fucking hate

its complacency, its lethargy

its inability to communicate

i thought it would be straight forward

that we would all understand

each other in this new global network

where we would all be free

instantly transmutable

instantly accessible

but the old constrictions remain

like who is able to afford it

and who lives where

and who knows who

strange that information

should be like buying  a shoe

trying it on for size to see if it fits you

but all the while the sales person

is telling you its just right

despite the fact your feet are cramped

but it’s meant to be tight

because all shoes stretch

sure, another sales pitch to grow

mushrooms between your toes

we are all being crapped on

from a great height

pressed into the biscuit moulds

of failure or success

like a purile Ben Lee song

that’s piped into your head

and what doesn’t fit

spews over the sides like waste

so why not play in that excess

take the waste and make it ours

live in the depths of the shittiest shit

because it is only in the shit

that we can see where the arseholes are

© shaun patrick green 2014

Study For A Self Portrait (for Francis Bacon)

Francis Bacon is on fire

Scalding a venal century

Tired of rough trade

And painting his own insides

He watches the human animal

Lazing on his couch smoking

Expecting it at any moment

To rise and eat him alive

It’s a game of chance, he thinks

So let’s throw the dice

He tenses for a fight

Every muscle straining

But the brush strokes defeat him

Drunk on sunrise he falls

On the floor of butcher shops

Chained on all fours

Caged by twisted zinc tubes

Like suppositories of failure

Condoms of denial

Besting the bestial

He will wake at noon

Stain his fingers with pigment

Wondering at how art

Can sometimes smell like breakfast

© shaun patrick green 2014

The Age Of Entitlement.

It was the best of times,
It was the worst of times,

We had poverty in the streets

Homelessness at new levels

More jobless than jobs to seek

Children in homeless shelters

Pensioners eating catfood

Boat people seeking welfare

Battered women saying its all good

Junkies saying they felt better

It was a golden age…

But now it’s all over

Joe Hockey has ushered in a new era

Without us even knowing

Where the entitlements

The needy relied upon are no longer

As we say “free-flowing”

Except that we pay taxes

Garnished from our wages

Some of us have payed them for 20 years

Outweighing the rock of ages
Surely this should entitle us to something? 
Basic living conditions? Basic education?

Clean water? Breathable air? Food? Sanitation?
No, my friends, the Age of Entitlement
Is well and truly over
As old certainties are sucked out from under us
Will the markets care for us as we grow older?

© shaun patrick green 2014