On The Acquisition Of Lamps.

In my dreams I always die

No matter anyhow

We all gotta go sometime

But it’s the manner of the going

That’s got me jaded

There’s a fat clown I’m talking to

And he seems understanding

Until he takes a straight razor

And slits my throat

Then there’s the one eyed hit man

Tracking me down through the city

Rain slick streets not slowing

His need to end me

Yet I don’t know what I did

To piss off his boss

Some gambling debt I guess

Though I don’t gamble

So have never lost

Then there are the robot babies

Like the dolls from Barbarella

Tiny but unstoppable

With gnashing teeth

Designed to strip flesh from bone

Home alone

I see them marching toward me

As relentless as an episode of The Block

And why the fuck not?

Let the renovators do me in –

Triple threatening me into a cold sweat

I hang on their advice

On how to quietly end my life

Which apparently requires

Fluffy pillows, shit art and

The acquisition of lamps

© shaun patrick green 2015

From Father To Son

From father to son we carry it on

Fanatical about sport and drink

From father to son we carry it on

Dangerous to feel or to think

From father to son we carry it on

This ability to live with self-loathing

From father to son we carry it on

This lack of capacity for loving

From father to son we carry it on

Chasing death with a greyhound’s speed

From father to son we carry it on

Emptiness, acquisitiveness and greed

From father to son we carry it on

This fatal aptitude for war

From father to son we carry it on

Woman is either mother or whore

From father to son we carry it on

The void at the centre of our being

From father to son we carry it on

Fucking and fighting without seeing

From father to son we carry it on

White-anting the next generation

From father to son we carry it on

Denigrating their aspirations

From father to son we carry it on

This fear, this hate, this dread

From father to son we carry it on

Long after either is dead

© shaun patrick green 2015