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Michael Farrell

Two poems

Prayer positions

    Hes lying down she Has muscle On,
    Her Legs, The.

Darks a big, Help look at,
As how theyre made how people sit on,
Cement when things get intense removing yourself so.
Her Legs, The.

We pass through the drama never overstayed
The decision to Remove singlets may &
Sweating the Odd recurrence the creation,
Her Legs, The.

Of The spielberg Moment swallowing breath
To, speak the, unexotic coming out:
Thinking or able to stop close my eyes,
Her Legs, The.

Stand against the wall holding,
& kissing my child her high hat:
Other practitioners in hats also this is when,
Her Legs The.

    Decisions to live alone In a Sunlit
    Room Tracing, As.

& working on, A dance routine,
Theyre connected & the ridding of anxiety traumas,
Alleviated by a sense of construction in the,
Room Tracing, As.

Bag further thematics further idols of articulation
Its a form Of antidote to alcoholism
Repackaged & Touchstone tending towards wheatgrass,
Room Tracing, As.

In Its richness The antithesis of
Large, gestures a, country life where:
Begging goes unnoticed perhaps theres space for the,
Room Tracing, As.

Last of us my feet,
Between she supports the water courses there:
Was something allowed to float



Fake gerberas a reminder of more,
Fun times i’n trousers leave in shorts,
A few beers later touch the flash car,
Hands in apple boxes optical sneer of:
Boss who, loves pumpkin the night was cancelled,
Bu’t morning woul’d come a few-leers
Variations abound a plastic leaf my
Hands clean &, yours well in the galleon the.
Meals on the table & th’e salad well,
At work they let a pig come,
To the counter & just that later,
Joe, recounted methods of breaking their ribs.
   In harness eyes, bloody skin burnt from the,
   Dust laughing the possu’m in, its hammock never finding resolution.


Of a dream so many go unnoticed,
Unrecorded except of course in poems o’r songs,
There ar’e names to trust &’ others wait,
For deceit in th’e country, house finally accommodating a:
Sense of fictio’n of living in burma someone,
To like to feature they like the ones;
At the, peel or in glossies where cara,
Wakes up with-an indeterminate amount of hair.
& glands would you lik’e to mov’e,
The red cars from — ‘The eighth floor nervy lazy
& japanese that curve, your friends even say pit-
   ts —’
Terrific fox thinks they should apply!
   Freudian properly dont change &-well never its the city,
   Without a heart on the steps like s’o many


Rooms empty the glass, cracked writing in a circle something,
Was dying everyone on brunswick st has a face;
Rubbing his imaginary money amused me

Michael Farrell

Michael Farrell

Michael Farrell lives in Melbourne. He has poems in recent issues of Heat, Southerly and Fulcrum. His book is ‘ode ode’ (Salt Publishing 2003):

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