Aught, no. 5 (2001)

Michael Farrell

propaganda

we sit in it like we own it
or i almost leaned on a friend
time to live out craft i havent
given style much thought not any
being older we fall for cheaper tamer
when we were younger loving propaganda
now we sit by the side of the road
you showed me free falling out of
exile to be tacky & a husband to
the mother of gods children its
all we hear of asian gaols cali death
cults we keep on under the fluorescence
the kettles not on thats the main
thing & i smell like your mouth
whatever comes out contradicts what
i see face down in the puddle i
stole from a cinema they tried
to embarrass me in front of the
couples they were trained they were
reading tracts & voting with their
middle fingers i think its all a bit
gluey the fabric of society must
be velcrod into ejector seat
covers to wash instead of brains

 

man of the dunes

a courtesy fur was dropped at the door
we love salt & sand & songs of love
& murder of medium seas were just
too tired too tired to stop the killing
of lynx sphinx & kiddywinks too hot
& dirty to wear anything who but masked
demons ever sees us anyway water as
ever a devils blessing & love a scratchy
dirty deal oh man the winds in its
element here i cant remember being
blown from anywhere else i dream
of trapping someone like you strapping
young insect in a dark room this bright
day everything collapses climbing
helps youd have no friends here no
cinema no bongs & redeyed all the
time everything all the time we wear
no watches have no alarms hippoless
mud weve plenty of bikes that mock
the stuck us our beautys our own
whod buy it the ugly crows are far
too vain to tear themselves from paper
wells & babies though dumb are stricken
with poverty still we feed them usually
eventually leaving them shovels & lies
of those that care somewhere for
bricks & roads that blow so slowly
away who on earth are we pilots in
the wind governed by things too quick
too small & hurtful to look at


Copyright 2001, by the author. All rights reserved.
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