Ode to the Baby Boomers.

If you twitch in your seat

Will the world give an inch

Not likely

You remain in place

Yet ever so slightly

Tectonically shifted to the right

It happens as you grow older

Plates of perspective slide

Like greased glass

You once smoked weed under trees

At university when education was free

And protest was a luxury

Now you no longer

Weep for the spread of inequity

Only the spread of your own arse

Your stomach follows too

Protruding like a balloon

Forcing you to buy elastic waist pants

You hang around malls

Wearing socks with sandals

Watching children with a creepy zeal

Not that you mean harm

Just that pace has outstripped you

Leaving you a vampire

Feeding on your own past

You watch the stock market

Cooing over your superannuation

As if the numbers were real

All those investment houses

And ironed seam trousers

Are the scaffolding for your generation

You had the best of times

Now you pout about the future

And wonder why your children are frustrated

© shaun patrick green 2016

a queerly gentle kind of hell.

the shrink tanks have sat us down

to deliver their diagnosis:

its post-traumatic millennial malaise

a first world condition 
known to cause sufferers

to snatch at crumbs of serenity

like starving animals

their minds distracted, unsettled

waking in fright each night

to another ghost of christmas past

all illusions we know

but the panic is real

as real as this face in the mirror

older but never wiser

floating balloon friendly as an IED

buoyed by a lighter than air gas

called absurdity

is it just that we are all

trapped in a cul de sac of our own making

faking coping skills

while the clothes dryer turns

and the dishwasher churns

reality TV harangues us ragged

and the world suicide bombs itself

into next century

us fervently praying to the virus

that will finally wipe out humanity

waiting for someone with the foresight

to please, please, please

press the reset button on life?

has the hope-compassion bubble

priced these qualities

beyond our reach?

if we cash in our cultural capital

will we have anything left to sell?

we take the pills

and walk the streets, guns loaded

our souls clearly in need of quantitative easing

whatever it takes to numb this queasy feeling

that our corner of the universe

is a queerly gentle kind of hell

© shaun patrick green 2016