Michael Farrell

Synecdoche, NSW

 

Is the whistling in, or outside, the poem you call home?
You’re a bubble and bubbles’ ears aren’t the keenest
Platypuses’ promises are slipperier than their promisers
You’re a bubble and bubbles’ ears aren’t the keenest
Is the whistling in, or outside, the poem you call home?

Is the whistling in, or outside, the poem you call home?
You’re a bubble and bubbles’ ears aren’t the keenest
Being small, a veritable prison of yourself, and guard
A piece of something greater, in terms of status
Platypuses’ promises are slipperier than their promisers
The flow of devices is what gets the tourists in
A piece of something greater, in terms of status
Being small, a veritable prison of yourself, and guard
You’re a bubble and bubbles’ ears aren’t the keenest
Is the whistling in, or outside, the poem you call home?

Is the whistling in, or outside, the poem you call home?
You’re a bubble and bubbles’ ears aren’t the keenest
Being small, a veritable prison of yourself, and guard
A piece of something greater, in terms of status
To some it means a big trout, to others a steam train
I cross the border with my culture in my satchel
Platypuses’ promises are slipperier than their promisers
The flow of devices is what gets the tourists in
To the motorbike plantation or other morbid attraction
I cross the border with my culture in my satchel
To some it means a big trout, to others a steam train
A piece of something greater, in terms of status
Being small, a veritable prison of yourself, and guard
You’re a bubble and bubbles’ ears aren’t the keenest
Is the whistling in, or outside, the poem you call home?

Is the whistling in, or outside, the poem you call home?
You’re a bubble and bubbles’ ears aren’t the keenest
Being small, a veritable prison of yourself, and guard
A piece of something greater, in terms of status
To some it means a big trout, to others a steam train
If it blooms it’s a flower, no matter who owns the dirt
A place can capture you but then you can lose access
Platypuses promises are slipperier than their promisers
The flow of devices is what gets the tourists in
To the motorbike plantation or other morbid attraction
You’ve been trained to accept the truncated meaning
A place can capture you but then you can lose access
If it blooms it’s a flower, no matter who owns the dirt
To some it means a big trout, to others a steam train
A piece of something greater, in terms of status
Being small, a veritable prison of yourself, and guard
You’re a bubble and bubbles’ ears aren’t the keenest
Is the whistling in, or outside, the poem you call home?

 


 

Slightings

 

Have you seen Russell Crowe lately?
No, he came into the café where I work on Mondays and ordered two lidless lattes
And propositioned a waiter
Was he satisfied?
No, the barista immediately forgot and the waiter hid behind a potplant

Was it even Russell Crowe, or rather a dark watery shadow with a foot in its mouth?

Have you seen Russell Crowe lately?
No, he came into the bar where I work on Tuesdays and ordered two headless pints of Guinness
And propositioned the barmaid
Was he satisfied?
No, the Guinness stained his cardy and the barmaid called him ‘buddy’

Was it even Russell Crowe, or rather an animal that looked like a dog running away, even though there’s no dogs in the area?

Have you seen Russell Crowe lately?
No, he came into the cinema where I work on Wednesdays and ordered two standing tickets
And propositioned an usher
Was he satisfied?
No, the other patrons stood in front of him and the usher wouldn’t validate his parking

Was it even Russell Crowe, or rather a flattened baby tortoise, or echidna?

Have you seen Russell Crowe lately?
No, he came into the bakery where I work on Thursdays and ordered two nutless hedgehogs 
And propositioned a chef
Was he satisfied?
No, he said they tasted like a cocoa candle, and the chef gave him a ladle to hold

Was it even Russell Crowe, or rather a member of Depeche Mode or Johnny Lee Miller?

Have you seen Russell Crowe lately?
No, he came into the library where I work on Fridays and ordered two football dictionaries 
And propositioned a shelver
Was he satisfied?
No, they gave him Beatrix Potter, and the shelver asked for a bigger rock on their finger

Was it even Russell Crowe, or rather a greeny-gold cormorant or an apostate bird?

Have you seen Russell Crowe lately?
No, he came into the chookery where I work on Saturdays and ordered two leg feather pillows
And propositioned a bag of wheat
Was he satisfied?
No, there was only one feather in each and the wheat was corn and broke his teeth

Was it even Russell Crowe, or rather a goanna with a pink flower behind its ear?

Have you seen Russell Crowe lately?
No, he came into the chemist where I work on Sundays and asked for two packs of unsticky band-aids
And propositioned a customer
Was he satisfied?
No, he was told to lick the sticky off himself and the customer offered him tips on oral health

Was it even Russell Crowe, or rather a sheep with a tyre stuck around its middle?

 

 

 

 

Michael Farrell has published several books of poetry, most recently Cocky’s Joy (Giramondo). He also published a scholarly book Writing Australian Unsettlement: Modes of Poetic Invention 1796-1945. Michael edits the print poetry magazine Flash Cove: flashcovemag@gmail.com. 

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