Wednesday, December 31, 2014

2 poems || Raymond Farr

No Glare on the Transparent Glass Trumpet

Smoke rings I saw
Entered the real world

As measured feet
Squeezed through a sausage casing

A kind of skin like a sentence
No longer simply digested

                       But what if
The words I speak
Are transparent glass trumpets?

What if a flock of plastic flowers
Trumpets to a flock of sacred birds

In complete darkness
Of some room close by?

                          There ought to be
A recurring figure of speech
To explain

As though someone

A thing or a statement
Half in the bag

Nowhere Close to Asylum

A box contains nothing is writing
                                                                                              A lover’s lie is remembered
                                                                                    —Tan Lin, Blipsoak01

as some pieces are dark bosses
holding skin to bone
a daisy of mien or something sans neon
arrives on a cigarette hewn out of granite
but never are you more penetrable in the margins
of oratorio—albeit of gauges’ strident white vicinities
late into evening song—than when something brown
& nomadic eclipses a skylight—
for what makes a summer love resonate
with psychotic encumbrances
is a sneezing fit then laughter?

apples out of context

the town is a cart load

I borrow the handle 

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