rock the country
rocks have balls.
i found a rock in the country. we got along pretty well.
it was a pretty rare rock; it hadnt been found since the 1970s.
i fixed the rock a simple omelette, while making assurances that omelettes were coming
back in.
the rock had been in a movie & a tv show, silently contradicting the story imposed on
the rock & its surrounds, or as the rock said 'misenscene'.
the rock conducted various kinds of therapy sessions of which i was an intrigued
participant.
i vaguely remember bleeding from the head to a sloweddown dubby version of 'evie' –
the whole thing was quite close to reality.
the rock said, i think ive gone as far as i can.
my life woodchuck
a task: measure the importance
of it or him. the necessary company
of
a continent. the sawing of wood
that is the under music
of
my particular life & of course all
sooks from that area. some
who have never been
there. (it is rather, alcohol
advertising that is
ruining our lives.) (going back
to him & black.) tv &
movies have an unfair advantage.
my instinct was not to use it;
he
showed me a way to do that, comfortably. play
the game:
all your family
have been gaoled in unrelated incidents. you must
guess
the most likely reasons. (of
course theres a macro reason,
but that
would mean reading the state as
a syndrome.) i probably wouldnt have
even used wooden
furniture without his example. but
lets hear from someone
else please. someone immune
perhaps to the i–him i–
her dialogue.
someone walking badly
dressed for bread & milk with no over
or
under music. theyre not machines! could i express
such sentiment without it?
If
i hadnt tried to make a world of
magazines & then
cut & pasted
them over the cracks &
splinters ... wasnt that an
escape? forget 'sheer bliss',
we cant hear it from this far out.
ive an
idea what it sounds like from
the words. are the
beach boys like salinger?
ive heard theres an upsurge in
reading poetry
among celebrities: that
their most revealing interviews are tissues of ashbery
quotes,
& paris is reliving spicer as pretty revision.
this is the very
diagonal
i wanted to avoid. 'i felt a little
ill' indeed: like
a jockeys playing
chess with my mind — yeah.
are we humour?
there they were "my' lovely ... [reps]'
cutting into a world called 'daffy
duck in
[prague]'. is it possible to write a
great song (without help from yeats)? (sometimes
i
even question what a jigsaws for?!) (but
later i remember.) sometimes it feels
(felt)
like a wave of shilly—shally
was about to break over me – it held –
firm
if not 'tight' – my hands / the cards cut /
shuffle. w.b., the '[whales] of
eden' have
no particular jokes: we go back
to (w.)s., (writing in another language
one
solution) our humility sincere & a performance, the carrot
falling over, ear-heavy,
slowed me (like a
price) ... & when its done (weve given),
pull on our
clothes & rueful
masks, driven by sound, song in "'boot'[s]",
'one eye [on] the
[silver]' screen, enjoy the cut ...
hoax persona
/dedicated poem/
/karma with arrest–
ed attitude/
/music lives here like
a drink critique lives
next door/
/wester–
ical
lane/
/send your mate
round round the
tate modern
& record
the sound/
/i mark your
blue question has
the resemblance
it does to rain/
Ekleksographia:
Wave Two
May, 2010
Poetry
Michael Farrell
Michael Farrell has published three books: ode ode, a raiders guide and BREAK ME OUCH. His most recent editing projects are an Australian feature for U.S.– based journal ecopoetics, and, with Jill Jones, Out of the Box: Contemporary Australian Gay and Lesbian Poets. He is researching a PhD at the University of Melbourne.