The Joy of Atheism by Annette Greenaway

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© Annette Greenaway 2011

Published by Philistine Press

Cover picture by Heidivaa




Down With Television, Up With the Web


The Joy of Atheism

The Real You

In Your Arms

Installation Featuring a Young Harrison Ford in Miniature

Looking Good

Spreading the Joy

Missing Persons

Horror Scope

Installation Featuring the Naked Sleeping Bodies of Tony and Cherie Blair

Rock Paper Scissors (A Love Triangle)

You Were the One

Eyes Like Dinner Plates


Exhibition Featuring a Series of Photoshopped Versions of the Shroud of Turin

Kitchen Sink Melodrama


Nostalgia #2

Thinking Not Praying

A Note to Richard Dawkins

Letís Embrace






Today I will fold myself
Into a paper swan,
Float myself down the river,
With poems printed on my wings.




Down With Television, Up With the Web


Down with television, conversation killer.
Down with television, destroyer of communities.
Down with television, wrecker of brains.
Down with television, the wealthy's weapon against the weak.

Up with the Web, conversation starter.
Up with the Web, creator of communities.
Up with the Web, developer of minds.
Up with the Web, the true democracy.






I have decided that I will spend the next year silent.
I will not speak or write another word.
I will recycle my phone and my laptop.
I will carry a set of cards with me wherever I go.
One of the cards will say, "Yes."
Another will say, "No."
Another will say, "Two sugars please."
One will say, "I adore your shoes."
One will say, "Apologies. I am spending the year silent,
And cannot respond to your query at this time."
One will be a picture of a flower.
One will say, "Good people don't kill people."
One will say, "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog."
One will say, "No explanation required."
One will say, "Insert amusing anecdote here."
One will say, "I love you."
Two of the cards will say, "I disagree entirely with your last statement."
One will be written in lower case, and the other in block capitals.
One will say, "Sex please."
One will say, "OK, you can stop now."
One will say, "It's your turn."
One will say, "I'm sorry."
One will say, "I'm terribly sorry."
One will say, "Why?"
One will be completely blank, and I will hold this card against my face,
Matching my expression.

You may think I am doing this because I am unhappy,
And I want to wallow in my own misery,
But I'm looking forward to being wordless.
I have a feeling it's going to be twelve months
Of uninterrupted joy.




The Joy of Atheism


In a hundred years

Weíll all be dead

But that doesnít matter.


There are great people I'll never meet,

Great sights Iíll never see,

Great books Iíll never read,

Great films Iíll never watch,

But that doesnít matter. 


All that matters is the beauty of the here and now,

Heaven and Hell


In this moment.




The Real You


I want to split you open like an atom,

Releasing the real you,

Your heart,

Your guts,

Your brain,

Your spirit,

Exploding, splatting, gushing into mine.




In Your Arms


In your arms
There are bones
Sometimes when you hold me
I picture our embracing skeletons
I wonder what would happen if we had no skin
Or if I could climb inside your body
And swim in your juices.

Sometimes I rejoice in these thoughts.
At other times
I just want to
turn my brain off.




Installation Featuring a Young Harrison Ford in Miniature




Harrison is sealed within a glass bulb similar to a snowflake shaker.  The bulb contains an array of wood shavings. Harrison is unable to speak because a wooden staircase is connected from the ground to his mouth.  The staircase leads directly to Harrisonís oesophagus.  Harrison appears to be in great pain, and on closer inspection youíll notice he has splinters embedded in his cheeks.  But donít worry Ė itís only make-up, and Harrison is acting. 




Miniature Harrison stands in the centre of a medium-sized dinner plate.  The upper half of his body is dressed as Indiana Jones.  He is naked from the waist down.  He is watching a live flamingo attempt to mate with a stuffed flamingo.  At irregular intervals, Harrison shouts, ďIt belongs in a museum!Ē




Harrison is dressed as Han Solo.  He is standing in a toilet cubicle.  Once again, he is in miniature but the toilet cubicle is life size.  He continually attempts to climb the white ceramic tower before him but slips back to the ground each time.  The man standing next to you observes that the scene is reminiscent of the struggle of Sisyphus.




Looking good


Why does looking good have to mean so much?

Sometimes I wish I didnít find you

So god-damned attractive.

I wish I didnít keep thinking

How lucky I am to be with someone who isnít ugly.

Please stop looking at me with those trance-inducing eyes.

Am I really this shallow

Or is this the way things are supposed to be? 




Spreading the Joy


I wonder if our happiness

Makes the world better in any way,

Or does it just make unhappy people more miserable?

Iíd like to spread the joy around

But spreading the joy is difficult.

Most of the time it just irritates people.

They smile while their eyes ask politely:

Please could you go and be cheerful somewhere else?




Missing Persons


Looking in your eyes,

I see youíve been missing for some time.

You didnít leave a note,

Or offer an apology.  

When you speak, your words are like postcards

From some forgotten city.


I wonder how and if I will discover you again.

Itís not like hunting for missing keys.

There will be no televised appeal,

Or posters pinned to local lampposts.


I hope you're happy. 

Really, I hope you're pleased with yourself. 


I canít find you because I too am missing.

Iíve been missing

For some time. 




Horror Scope



Yet frantically

I turn to page fifty-three

To discover the fate of me

And eight-point-three

Percent of the population. 



Weíre all going to be

Decapitated by Frisbees 

On Thursday. 




Installation Featuring the Naked Sleeping Bodies of Tony and Cherie Blair




The Blairs are standing hand in hand, their snoozing heads slumped to their chests but their backs perfectly straight.  Behind them a large projector screen plays an episode of the sitcom From Death us do Part featuring Cherieís father as an idealistic young socialist.  It takes a few moments for you to notice Tonyís face has been cleverly superimposed onto the screen, replacing that of Alf Garnett. 




The naked Tony sits in a prison cell while his wife sleeps soundly outside.  She is wearing a barristerís wig.  In his left hand, Tony clutches a copy of the UN Declaration of Human Rights.  In his right hand he holds a copy of the novel 1984 by George Orwell (real name Eric Blair). 




Tony and Cherie are sleepwalking.  They hold each other by the hands and spin in a circle, repeating the same old nursery rhyme over and over. 


Ring-a ring-a roses

A pocket full of posies

A-tishoo, a-tishoo,

We all fall down.


But instead of falling down they continue to spin, oblivious to the world around them.  You donít notice at first but with each step the Blairs are continuously avoiding the patch of landmines which are visibly embedded in the floor. 


The woman next to you remarks that this whole exhibition is exploitative and ultimately meaningless, yet somehow itís impossible to look away.




Rock Paper Scissors (A Love Triangle)


You are made of stone
I am made of paper
I wrap myself around you
And you are mine.

I am made of paper
You are made of stone
You hurl yourself into me
Breaking my heart.

She is a pair of scissors
She opens her legs
Cutting me into pieces.
You stand watching, waiting your turn.

She is a pair of scissors.
You smash her blades apart.
I didn't ask you to do that,
But you did it.

And it's too late.
Too late for any of us now.
The game is over
And no one has won.




You Were the One


You were the one who asked me to meet you in the frozen lake, swimming under the gleaming sheet of ice, looking up at distorted shadows and distant birds. The temperature is fine once you get used to it and if you hold your breath for long enough you can turn into a mermaid. But you aren't here like you promised and I'm waiting, drifting amidst sleeping fish and rock-hard reeds and suddenly I am desperately alone and impossibly cold.




Eyes Like Dinner Plates


She had eyes like dinner plates,
And they were dinner plates.
You could eat your dinner off them,
So we ate our dinner off them,
Using her nostrils as holders
For our salt and pepper shakers.

You may think we were the victors in this scenario,
And she was the victim,
But she was smiling all over her face,
And we were so unhappy.






Sheís not me,

That child who sucked the nipple off her dummy

And drenched her bib in second hand orange juice.


Sheís not me,

That spiteful brat who slammed her sisterís fingers in the door

When she lost at Monopoly.


Sheís not me,

That teen who didnít want to go to school

Assuming she was fat and ugly because no one told her otherwise.


Sheís not me,

That girl who went out clubbing Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday,

And didnít pay for any drinks.


Sheís not me,

That woman who allowed her boyfriend to treat her like dirt,

And secretly enjoyed it.


Sometimes I recall these people,

Inherited memories from my skinís former occupants,


In real life. 




Exhibition Featuring a Series of Photoshopped Versions of the Shroud of Turin




In the first of one hundred and sixteen exhibits, the Shroud of Turin has been adapted to resemble the face of the late John Lennon during one of his bearded phases. 


Someone behind you mutters something about ďthe ever-present spectre of WarholĒ. 




The Shroud of Turin now resembles the face of the late Santa Claus.  His beard is coloured Tip-Ex white.  In faint grey etchings in the corner of the shroud you see a blurred object which the caption beneath the picture explains is a Coca Cola bottle. 




The Photoshopped Shroud of Turin clearly resembles the face of the late Osama bin Laden.


The lady ahead of you turns away in palpable revulsion. 


ďA disgrace,Ē she says.  ďSuperimposing the face of a mass-murderer onto the likeness of Christ?  Could these morons sink any lower?Ē 


Unbeknown to her, the artist is standing directly behind her.  The artist waits for the lady to depart before burying his face in his hands and silently weeping. 


ďWhat have I done?Ē he whispers.  ďMy God, my God, what have I done?Ē 




Kitchen Sink Melodrama


Somewhere in the interior of my skull
I'm aware I'm overreacting
But they were my pickled onions
And that was my final Laughing Cow triangle.

In the future I may grow to accept your faults
And the crimes you have committed today
But I will never forgive you for failing to appreciate
The enormity of the situation.






After the apocalypse

When weíre huddled together in the cold and dark,

Wondering who will die next,

Will we still be having those conversations

About how The A-Team

And Thundercats

And Benjie, Zax and the Alien Prince

Were works of art

In an ironic way?




Nostalgia #2


My favourite bit from Doctor Who was when Peter Davidson turned into Colin Baker, even though I loved Peter Davidson and wanted him to be my dad.  He was lying on his back having sacrificed his life to save his assistant, the American one, and all his previous assistants appeared in cartoon bubbles above his head saying ďDonít die, Doctor!Ē  And Adric appeared from beyond the grave and said, ďDonít die, Doctor!Ē  And I was lying on the carpet on my stomach saying ďDonít die Doctor!Ē because I loved him and wanted him to be my dad, and then the Master appeared and said, ďDie Doctor!  Die Doctor!Ē  Then he turned into Colin Baker and the music started and my sister said ďYouíre not supposed to like Doctor Who because youíre a girl.Ē 




Thinking, Not Praying


I watch you walk across the carpet,

Trapped in your own silence.

You walk into the kitchen, not seeing me sitting here.

I can hear you breathing through the wall. 

I want to tell you I can help you,

But I donít like lying. 


I close my eyes,

Join my hands,



Not praying.




A Note to Richard Dawkins


Buddhists arenít idiots.

Jainists aren't idiots.

Christians arenít idiots.

Zoroastrianists aren't idiots.

Confusionsists arenít idiots.

Rastafarians aren't idiots.

Pagans arenít idiots.

Hindus arenít idiots.

Taoists arenít idiots.

Jews arenít idiots.

Sikhs aren't idiots.

Spiritists aren't idiots.

Falun Dafaists aren't idiots.

Shintoists arenít idiots.

Unitarians aren't idiots.

Agnostics arenít idiots.

Muslims arenít idiots.


Nor, I believe, are you, sir.




Letís Embrace


Letís embrace uncertainty,

Letís embrace meaninglessness,

Letís embrace the absence of life after death,

And the nonexistence of a divine creator. 


Letís embrace the accidental nature of our being,

Letís embrace randomness,

Letís embrace loving each other because itís a good thing to do,

Rather than a ticket to Paradise. 


These are all good things.

They are gifts from no one.  

Letís embrace making the most of our time on this planet, 

Before we all die.

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