Gutter Crawl

Started with the thirst after work

Hard day dealing with circle jerkers

Manager breathing down my crack

Like a fifty-something twerker

“Where do you see this business?”

Pause for effect: “Moving forward?”

Douche bag I see this business

Moving forward up your arse

Just like every other teleological

Metaphor you can shove into your

Glib over-achieving orifices

So five came and I hit the pub

And I hit it motherfucking HARD

Not at first of course

These things build like a symphony

First the intro, where I greet the locals

Blind Bob and Snide Sue have taken

Their usual places and are well lubed

I heave a hoi and spy Derek the Dalek

So called because he speaks in a monotone

Hiding in the shadows with a pint

He’s hoping to keep out of sight

But I am not in the mood to be alone

He has a plan to fuck his way through Melways

Suburb by suburb, blowjob by blowjob

But when it comes to teenage sex slaves

I beg to differ and move away

Next comes the slow movement

Gloria of the lonely hearts brigade

With her white wine and lemonade

Who I’d fuck had I not the hots for her daughter

She drones on about how men are bastards

As the sun sets and sky darkens

And I nod knowingly, ignoring distant laughter

For the more beer I drink the more serious it gets

We are all here for a reason, all fucked by life

Not content to sit at home, be the vapid doctor’s wife

This place is our temple, our hall of justice

The finale fills the air

Wednesday Night Trivia starts

My chips come without mustard

It all gets a bit vague from there

I might have tried to kiss a Swedish backpacker

I might have tipped ash in Gloria’s hair

I might have thrown myself onto the pool table

And performed my impression of a dolphin

Chasing the cue ball into the centre pocket

Which was when the publican pulled me aside

And said “Go home. Your legless.”

He pushed me out a side door

With well wishes and a six pack

Where I hit the pavement knowing

Today had become tomorrow

And none of my problems had gone away

Disappearing down streets cold and dark

We are all of us in the gutter

And it’s so all-consuming that

None of us are looking at the stars

© shaun patrick green 2014

Le parte maudite (for Georges Bataille)

Every economy overproduces

So what happens to the waste?

It becomes a commodity

To be secured and traded

By the magic of capitalism

Even shit no one wants has value

But lets take a typical share

And follow its vicissitudes

Now a company goes public

Like a pervert losing his raincoat

And pieces get sold off

These are called shares

The idea is that you buy a piece

Of this company

And you share in its profitability

If it doesn’t make a profit

Your money is down the toilet

If it does make a profit

You’re smelling like roses

Financial planners exist

To tell you this is a good thing

But they are bottom feeders

Sucking up the shit of larger fish

But wait – there’s more…

The company you have bought shares in

Is one of millions in a global casino

Called “The Free Market”

Where anything goes – thus the word “FREE”

So while your well-intentioned share

Is boggling about in the vacuum

Of free market international capital

There are traders out there betting on it

That’s right, like big odds roulette

And not only are they betting on your share

It’s rise or eventual fall

They are betting on the value

Of the company issuing the share

The amount of debt owed by that company

The value of the raw materials it uses

Even the value of the currency used to buy them

It doesn’t stop there

Once the company in which you have bought shares

Has made their product and shipped it

Someone has to clean up

And this is where waste becomes a commodity

Who buys it? Who sells it? Who coverts it?

There is a whole economy built around waste

Such that if we didn’t make it

Millions would be out of work

So keep buying over-packaged crap

Somewhere, someone’s livelihood

Depends on your accursed share

© shaun patrick green 2014

Is Scott Morrison Batman?

He is the protector

Of our sovereign borders

But who is he really? Huh?

We know he is the aspirational

Humanitarian politician

Who plays hard but has a heart

Of... Well, on reflection

He has no heart at all

Which begs the question:

Is Scott Morrison Batman?

He has unlimited access

To funds and toys such as

Orange boats return to sender

The Indo’s will never remember

After all they are our brown cousins

Recently descended from trees

Give ‘em the black cape routine

And they’ll be quivering at the knees

Because their small local disturbance

Well paid for but ill trained for

Will be the nail in the coffin

Of our good will with our neighbours

So, like Batman, Scott Morrison

Is trying to do good but is

Hunted and reviled by the public

Clearly he is misunderstood

© shaun patrick green 2014

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