confessional poem

“there was blood on the bumper officer,

i (had) just meant to go

on mowing; & then someone – wearing a clown

nose – came up & presented me

with a handful

of larkspur (that unfunny flower). did i ev-

er tell you

of that hovel i made out of the ironiest sand:

it was quasi-black
IT WAS LIKE A BARRACKS & PRODUCED ITS OWN FLAK
i thought id never get it in to austral-

ia? (they sell tiger shells in the

opshop – a fact that

gives me no satisfaction … i built my

own establishment by

this ‘sea’.)”

This poem originally appeared in Verse

the eyes of loopy jordan

if were so
similar – why do we exist?
to sweat, to take

whatll never be taken? never take or break
      you twist till ... ‘
sunrise’.      similar      reach
for the trite. these
sores are? ‘... pay for making
us sound like u2.
’ – & you      ,      there
. fragments from the supper

sound      ‘train to russia’
or ‘it pulled me out of the river’
      just
let me go      shot or.
what we make of      indigenous streets      rabelaisian,
      stewed-
for suburbs.      ‘...out of
the hole.’ genuflect when you see jesus,
      you
little      or      the kind of –
black items of clothing spread on the carpet, a
white cord, the poles of the swings:
      for auckland

... marianne faithfull rabbiting gannet
shit for the garden
slings an iron tiki over the [yardarm
] sip something ...
you brought. ‘not reflection but dismantling whats
there.’ (or
ceasing to believe – infecting my body.
) ‘... because of

the name.’ he could see over all
the island. its not about having
whats lacking, but looking at what
      now drive & let
me call you charlie brown-
 

©Michael Farrell