Monday, November 23, 2015

2 poems || Raymond Farr

I Needed Fresh Glissade across the Pond

To those of you who live invisibly—
We leave you the reek of poisoned Kool Aid

The end of history & Juan Valdez
We leave you two feet lost in the leaves of Buchenwald

We leave you going crunch like life is made of flavor crystals
We leave you light through a straw we got at McDonald’s

We leave you slime on the waggle of a walking fish
We leave you—A corpse is a corpse of course of course!

We leave you nothing pasty or hallucinogenic
We leave you a Stuckey’s toilet on a blue afternoon

We leave you the empty soccer stadium & turf hardened by winter
We leave you to those who live eternally in silence

We leave you explosions in the rooms of our sexual whispers
We leave you the story of the one bald tire of the 20th C blowing in traffic

We leave you a big chorus of Boris is dying
We leave you barren & wild on the outskirts of Moscow

We leave you these donuts sprinkled with rain
We leave you a million to one shot just pay us a dollar

We leave you cuddled up yr bodies steaming like garbage
We leave you wanting nothing & craving everything

We leave you ice cream melting on the dashboard of yr Saab
We leave you like a box of dead mice a lover has killed for you 

We leave you forbidden candy on a make-believe table
We leave you enwreathed in the halo of yr own brilliance

We leave you sucking yr thumbs on a dangerous street
We leave you a devastated emptiness & watching TV

We leave you the shallow husk of things you meant to say to us
We leave you at 12:24 pm like it was just any other Tuesday

Delete: In the Left Hand—Asylum

Delete: at some point delicious embankment
Delete: the atrocious head-banging to begin with

Delete: unusual winter oscillation, impervious disillusionment
Delete: some of us have deadlines

Delete: a dog barking in this big field of red glass
Delete: sweeping reformation of the swimming ideas

Delete: Robert Bly or Ai or The Sun Also Rises
Delete: a pineapple lamp—the big disgusting saxophone

Delete: instinct isn’t something a person is proficient in
Like “tagging” or onomatopoeia

Delete: like one hat in the squalor of a minute’s revolt
Delete: & when I die bury me in the brightest white buoy—

Delete: a single thought to silken my coffee
Delete: there is no room for spangled garlic roast potatoes

Delete: a parallax of shadow eating creosote & timber
Delete: a randy huff of unshaven

Delete: no sick noises moving across rooftops & front hedges
Delete: no preflight soup or arrow thru the statue’s head

Delete: half naked in the farts of my own emptiness
Delete: it was curtains for yours truly

Delete: a white piano played Burning Down the House
Delete: his feet are a song about how one night he came home

Delete: where was I to go when the music just stopped?
Delete: I was no fucking excellent flamingo I know that now

Delete: I confessed to over 6,000 lies in a cold house
Delete: I crawled up & over the lava rocks of love

Delete: I was trying to figure things out in my head
Delete: & my middle finger—pink & raw & cut off at the knuckle!

Delete: the room was too bright to see in the dark
Delete: the poem sees fit to engage the human paradigm

Delete: my mother for yr carburetor!
Delete: commerce like a dictionary or phone book

Delete: the moment the music loses its edge
& time stops within reach of the propeller

Delete: the language taking its most beautiful form
Delete: I wade out into the owls of bare evening

Delete: I love you petro chemically & that’s all
Delete: the sky rolling up like a butcher just now

Delete: boots on the blithe feet
Of what sinks in the distance

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