Michael Farrell

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A Queer Opening

A woman alleged; a woman in the same
  hall. They've been written the same
  When two heads are shaped, they're chic
They're not coming towards you. What he's saying's
that, the Women of Europe, Ophelia
Catherines on Katherines, and Helen, weren't stand-

ing in the window, waiting for their explor-
ers to die. ‘I can't see’, she said; ‘to be fair
he said, Circular Quay. An emotion, a
frog, a stick of chewing gum. Lay down under
a ficus, get up. I waited for the wheel-
chair. ‘This is the dream.’ We begin to rebe-
gin. That fossil with a cream handkerchief and
fragments of a borrowed sandwich. There was a
hex in the sky; I noticed a severe lump
of alternate blueness, that looped around
a welded scrap. To realise that: falling
down obscures the act of kissing, however
large. You must combine with Play School to bring that
scene in; you ask me what's between these two wo-
men, one active in wifery, not like the
other, arrayed in the nonhuman. An ar-
ray like a sparkling mood, a come-get-me of
feathers. We've travelled far from sympathy: that's
the point. Sympathy's the centre from which one
self-taught tribe wars with another. Words stand up
a violin becomes a shed. Eyes play in
the shed and the flowering plane. Black appa-
ritions on vertical pillows; obliqueness
making a blind spot for police with its tongue
  Its signature's on my back

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