Death of The American Dream
by Carey Lenehan
Well, Hell, America!
What did you expect?
Did you really think things would be any different,
just because,
you backed a horse of a different colour,
because it said it would change,
the Unchangeable,
because you were promised, a status flux,
because it said, we can,
when it really meant to leave
the rest of you at the door?
What did you expect?
That prejudice would disappear
and find unity stabled in its place?
Really?
Did you think that the truth would out,
that the power-mongers would relinquish
their uranium grasp
and give the world back to you
on the heels of a fresh contender?
Did you?
No, I don’t think you did.
I think you all knew that,
what was started
could not be stopped by a change of bloodline,
that the greedy
had already stripped the meat off the bones
leaving a clacking, skeletal America
dancing frenzied,
all the way to the banks.
I think you saw
that relentless corruption
had murdered the American Dream
and become an irrevocable torrent
that would only overwhelm and submerge your lives
in an ocean of indebtedness
for a hundred years.
Not even Man O’ War could’ve beaten those odds
or overcome that handicap.
Here you are, America,
at the end of the road of opportunity
and self-fulfilment,
brought down by the rapacious appetite
of uncontrollable capitalism.
So tell me, how’d that work out for you?
And when you vote for the next horse,
don’t expect earnest promises
to change much about your falling society
because,
Only YOU can do that.
Like this:
American Martyr or Terrorist Nutjob?
and a poem, of course…
Okay, well whilst I’m in no way advocating the actions of Joe Stack in Austin, Texas recently, I did take the time to read his ‘manifesto’ (suicide note) which you can find widely on line.
It made me wonder, what it really takes for an ordinary guy to lose it so completely? His letter, if you believe any of it, clearly shows you why. Of course he will now be vilified by the media and deemed a terrorist by society, but I challenge you to find five things in his reasoning that you disagree with. Everything he wrote I’m hearing said a lot by Americans these days. He reached the point where his life was not worth continuing and seems to have been attempting to do something to make change happen. So what does it take to step over the line, and how many more Joe Stacks are we going to see over the months to come?
Is he a martyr for the dying American dream, or a nutjob with a grudge?
You tell me.
Rolling ‘Isms by Carey Lenehan
Inspiration, expressionism,
as slippery as an oiled rope
or an iced eel,
as elusive as an alien encounter
and
equally inexplicable,
febrile and fluctuating,
so that every attempt
to clutch and secure it for nourishment,
admonition,
or rescue
is nullified
and fluttering fingertips,
stroke only the merest hint of creativity
before encountering,
empty space…
Idealism, as ephemeral as a notion
held in the head of an opium poppy,
or couched in the eye
of an insurgent child,
paraded in the hopes and dreams
of proud patriots,
trampled beneath burgeoning immorality,
no more now,
than a momentary glimmer
of human possibility,
eroded by reality
and the benefit of experience,
clouded by daily misery
or a sense that
no one is listening any more,
any effort to bring it into the light
fracturing the fragile fabric of conviction
before converting it to doubt.
Socialism, a downtrodden concept
of community,
embracing consideration and communal responsibilty,
derided and long undervalued
by a first world that refuses to diet
even though it is dying of obesity.
Sullying a sytem of sharing
egalitarian values,
demonised for suggesting,
that what’s yours,
might also be mine…and everyone elses.
God Forbid!
From this we scatter fearful,
and all the useful definitions in between
become blurred to insignificance
as we sink into a sea of greed,
or an ocean of self servingness
in its abject rejection
Capitalism, an ever turning wheel of torturous dispossession
carving a rut
through the fettered fabric of humanity
disavowing our intent
to do good
leading us astray with devilish temptations
Promises of endless richesse
beyond our wildest dreams
yet,
with surgical precision,
whilst we look the other way,
slicing and dicing the herd
determining who floats and who falls
by counting the zeros on a ledger
and saying
not only
that Greed is Good
but
that Greed is All
Nihilism, a moment of insanity,
a seismic fracture, sinking through mental structure
and a need to be noticed,
no matter what
because all that might once have been of value
has become meaningless,
and democracy
has failed.
The cost?
Broken dreams and shattered expectations
flying into the sun,
blinked out in a blaze of inglory,
rolling a fiery ‘Ism through the clouds,
towards the source of a pain that will never end,
sinking angry teeth into a world
that does not care
Desperate to be heard,
dying silenced.
A World of Hungry Caterpillars
The greedy men are eating the world,
one bite at a time,
chomp, chomp, chomp,
like a horde of Very Hungry Caterpillars
who can never get enough,
watch them go
through the book of the world,
where every page
now has a bigger hole.
They have demolished liberty,
polished off equality
and are making their way through morality,
soon the earth will be hollow,
sucked out and wasted away,
the forests will be destitute,
the seas will be bankrupt
and even the air,
will be in debt
to the Fed Reserve
and Goldman Sachs
The money men are eating the world,
one bite at a time
chomp, chomp, chomp
like a plague of gambling locusts who can never play enough,
Russian roulette,
they have chewed up justice,
regurgitated honesty
and with their unsustainable appetites,
soon the living forests will be consumed,
the rocky mountains masticated,
the riverbeds sucked dry
and all those hatching, multicoloured butterflies
will have nothing to left to eat.
The insatiable bankers are stealing the world,
robbing the fields of oil,
selling the deserts to the deepest digger,
short-trading the oceans,
disembowelling the forests
and when they are done,
all those gilded butterflies with nothing left to eat
will dry out their wings beneath an unrelenting sun
take to the sky
and find other worlds to devour
George Bush – Farewell Press Conference 12.1.09
So Long GDubya – by Carey Lenehan
So long then GDubya,
Man of Words,
some of them coherent,
as you wing your merry way to Crawford
to make a cuppa
for the missus,
having given us your departure ramble
down a memory lane
littered by regrets
and the burnt remnants
of a million dead people
who would be alive
were it not for you….
So long to those cosy press calls
where all the journalists,
seem to be called Mike.
How it fair brings a tear to my eye
to see you reminisce so fondly on your era,
as though the chaos you caused,
is all perfectly normal.
We hear you George,
as you apologise for Katrina,
for the complete and unforgiveable lack
of WMD’s,
and the banner you held
which said it was all over.
You managed to catch Saddam,
but Bin Laden remains….
are unconfirmed
and The War Against Terror
made TWAT’s out of us all
because we let you fool us
and retire
unimpeached.
How much ‘fun’ did you have
in that big ol’ Whitehouse
on a daily basis,
while people lost their lives
because of you?
Was it a ‘blast’,
to be in charge
of all those lovely guns
and silly old laws,
so much so,
you felt an overwhelming need
to fire them both?
It was a barrel of laughs for the rest of us
believe me
And now, as you sidle away
on the cloven feet of your effort
leaving a pretty patsy to
try to avert
the final countdown you initiated,
I wish you well,
dear GW,
as you wished Obama well,
with a tiny snigger,
because you really can’t be blamed,
with yer downhome style
and yer ten gallon goof bucket
for letting the bad guys
tell you what to do.
That was,
after all,
why they let you have the job.
So get gone pardner,
and don’t look back,
sad you may be
and full of regret
for all the things
you couldn’t screw up
but fear not, lest ye feel the need to return,
rest assured,
we’ll be suffering the fallout from your reign
well into the anal glands of history
and the stink,
may never wash off.
You asked that history should judge you
and believe me, it will.
In thirty years or so,
all will see the lies you told
and maybe then
just maybe
they’ll hang you for it.
Kiss My Shoes Mr Bush by Carey Lenehan
See these shoes, Mr Bush,
these worn brown loafers
I hurl
with disdain,
at your head?
They represent how I feel about you,
about your self-induced war against me
and my kind.
In throwing them,
I spit on your lies
and the all encompassing arrogance
with which you rob us
of our right to govern ourselves
as we choose.
See these shoes, Mr Bush?
I want to walk in these shoes,
across the military arena
of your face
but only
once I have walked long and far
through the shattered streets of Baghdad
and covered the soles of these shoes
in the blood, shit and death
which is all that is left there
With these shoes,
I want to stamp out the stain
of your Presidency,
pound, curse, rub your dust
into the unkind ground
of the sterile Eden you created
and contracted out to your friends
Where once Gods walked
now the Empress of time lies ruined,
raped, crucified and prostrate
before your God called Greed
See these shoes Mr Bush?
In these shoes
I have followed your path of chaos
around the globe.
Everywhere your hand has touched,
lives are ruined
Every story you make up
to keep
the sheep
asleep,
takes peace and freedom from others
and crushes them
beneath American jackboots.
In these shoes,
I have lost friends, relatives
faith and hope
following the tangled web of lies you spew
of Al Quaida, of Bin Laden, and how Iraq
is just part of the problem
you were ordained to solve
In these shoes Mr Bush,
I listen to the way you change the words of peace
and turn them into threats
how you label every A-Rab a raghead
without knowing how our histories are shared
how our religions mirror each other
and how much more I believe, than you do
See these shoes Mr Bush
Inschallah, the next pair may well
blow up in your face
and we will be able to wipe you up
as I have wiped up children, parents,
daughters and sons
from the streets of my world,
in a war, created by you
to enrich yourself further
while impoverishing them
These shoes cost me much,
and I shall lose much more in the throwing
But what you don’t see, is how much I gain,
for, where I come from,
this demonstrates
that I think less of you
than the dirt beneath my feet.
For you have borne us into a world of pain
and we shall be a long time
in the suffering
See these shoes Mr Bush?
Keep them.
Start walking.
