Sunday, July 24, 2016

2 poems || Raymond Farr

The Voltage of My Dying

The telephone is a sound a skeptic makes of a friend
& so I enter a tavern full of evocative surprises

A room volcanic trembling polka dot unsustainable
& what reasons we had we now withdraw

For the world is a cube attached to an email
& life is stranger & colder than autumn without you, Jean Genet

& poetry a nomadic number frozen deleted sanitized disambiguated
Or one is a boisterous design & kleptomania is law

Something is either blue or it is Michael Palmer obviously
But who is that walking like a slain lion

Past the deer with no feet converging on a landscape devolving?
One loop of afternoon shadows & we sit here like swimmers

Discussing a body of work like a small farm—
Equatorial blunt magically-spawned highly-inflammable

& the Suitcase Was Still Unbelieving
Multiple labyrinths of quincunxes are counted
& I am hungry for real sky this time

This time around I’m not interrogative I’m a single animal soul
I am extinguished humanely by translucent experimental genius

& because a phone book & a chestnut have a hair of the dog in them
& dirty laundry in the hall sits in a heap of sad yellow shirts

I climb the electric darkness of my words inch by zoo animal inch
& heavy clouds in the window resemble a sentence/someone’s fluffy white salad

& failing the pump working, this makeshift tourniquet should do us
It is the wash of a lamp hitting us secretly ray after ray

A brief anatomical realism we respond to like blue fire in our pjs
& like Obstructionist wattle leering at us in the cone-light of a street lamp

A yellow pigeon dies in the rectangle snow of a tongue-tied TV
& history & a red toothbrush for a girl, etc

& the last syllable is just mayo & raw chopped celery
& someone writing ad nauseam—Is this where?

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