Michael Farrell is researching a thesis on recycling culture at Deakin in Melbourne. He has published one book: ode ode (Salt 2003), and has a reading project blog. Other recent poems appear in Typo, Coconut and Otoliths.

You see the snake, reaching the fish—oops! it goes.
in circles,, like a window,... showing a angel, the scene’s
slant-see. You remember, my mind ... I of the cigar

screams, beauty’s, like a fist the table looks back at
my grandfather’s wet eyebrows,, turn and squirm like fear into
smithereens. I love you, in reality we are like your
mouth: this street ... my armpit, the princess, you see, blood
in the dirt, she looks “I smile.” That’s the idiot
your beer her elbow shoes with green I look like
a woman and stop ... my existence. milk, to lips. hand
her a spider. a child speaks. pink beer a street
heart “I like art. to teach desires, and heaven. her

gold. the paper Academy, glass the white clouds in my
pockets, a duck in the blue smoke. and green, like
a chair in his milkshake. guitar,” I say, immortal
blue language blue hands. sensitive lights. white police in pretty
blue swarms. A lady puts tea down my feet careful.
kids, their eyes. the fashions brandy under a mouse. little

nests with orange-light, the sky. the window dog, and
tragedy,, the world turns, a lamp post in stilettos, castanets.
She lights by nature I walk up and love with
heavy makeup my body their fingers more sugars quick, grow
a moustache general? the sea prince the chicken teeth, jam
from my cock coffee and stuff. The table napkins wave.

the rose a beginning in the old documents. a young
a young white mare jumped back, a man died. Railway
was mind plain, doubt, people. the idea presented itself. What,
of the intention, the cross-picture the hands written away.
insignifi-report effect. the drama, the distance. the story broken,
blurred, an accessory pale like a paper it likes. who
could ask the forty thief, the boy walked away. go.
in the evening, running unconscious, loosened. his assistance his leg
remembered, you see a different gesture. he talked the child
wanted to bore him very likely, the wound from view

wish-to-practice was considered an injustice one day, you
read whatever he does. Who is a house? a beauty
the wild rains, the nightingale begun. in the solitude a
melody, the black and white secretary of domestic happiness. in
big grass-line up-coloured smoke, mice in real life
thoughts of cold bogs the fresh horizon the sea-carnation

you are a beach, your horse all voices. the robbery
; and us. numbers, see them dance. style on earth, like
heaven like angels and velvet frescoes. the tone invisible sky:
eat the tree. strange morning I saw the lawn. fantastic
like a funeral was crystal,, the sun pink and bizarre

traditional and possible. French flamingos rough and the Mediterranean sunset
cluster on the water for generations, and laugh. things, thin
blue-me half-tree your chickens, my gun, her performance

© Michael Farrell 2006.

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