Michael O'Brien

dreaming of droughts

An airbus made of a waterfall. Whatever happens cake needs to be made w/ sugar. Nothing can be done, good or bad, about it. It’s like rain. Bela’s dead - nout to be done again. Vapour becomes invisible - can’t repeat experiment in a lab. I take it all on blind faith, the holy ghost too. Expanding, the airbus becomes warm. I watch an old man sitting across from me write out a postcard - I wonder if he knows about the cubic volume of this yoke? Closing my eyes I dream of droughts.

                fair weather clouds a child learns a new word

dial 0161 for nostalgia

The moon moves into advertising and door-to-door sales. ‘I never saw that coming’ says some planet. To make itself more relatable to potential clients the moon watches 6 plus hours of tv a day. Watching the home shopping channel one evening they buy Mecca and an unspecified amount of seahorses. ‘I think it’s a good deal’ it says to itself the next day.

cold day
as verbs

Watching a day labourer become a brick the moon feels good about its posture and exercise regime - which includes a tae bo vhs that always brings forth the dreams of OJ Simpson. Riding the wave of feeling good the moon goes to the bathroom and writes: ‘meet me here at 7:30 for the plague and a handjob’. On the back of a bibliography the moon writes down a mechanic’s number.

Michael O’Brien lives in Glasgow Scotland. His work has appeared most recently in Never Ending Story, Moonchild, Failed Haiku, Quatrain Fish Occulum. He is the author of As Adam (UP Literature, 2012). He was also a runner-up in the Mainichi Daily News Haiku Contest in 2009.
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