He Put His Mouth Where His Poetry Was
I
Hallucinating ALLEN GINSBERG HOME PERSONALITY KIT
In endless dishwater eyes for rental rooms
Without lovers’ scent this November evening
Allen Ginsberg rips off
Curbed dog mask everlasting
His suicide clutch rider breathing methadone
Comes pounding heart strings
Surf to shining surf
& just like Nixon or Jesus/Buddha/Mao
or Batman over Tokyo
or TV on paper
he conjures up
a thousand verses
of
BROOKLYN APOCOLYPSE DINER FOOD TO GO!
He kanoodles his addiction
Putting on his underwear
one charm bracelet at a time
II
Allen Ginsberg ripped off his ski hood
Abandoned NY on the flop house floor
Some broken faucet crying wind
In lonesome Shelley book
Got him high on
Brownstone bread crusts viola beards kissing birds—
“This is humus, ma.
You have doused all yr hunger
In lieu of a soul.
You must devour me Devour me Devour me
& eat pa
As you would a fife.
Run for the fences, Ma. Yr life is a fife
Punctured
By delusion.”
III
Allen Ginsberg still ghost-writes
The mad shadows that haunt all empty —isms
Throwing his shoes at the archangel-Blake
Mad Blake-Satan-penis convulsing
On fire
In the East River’s mouth
Happens darkly to a mouth harp
In 52nd street hell
Sending Songs of Innocence & Songs of Experience
To teeth church
In memoriam
& this tonight: For One Night Only!—
All beauty is real!
All ugly is silence!
Allen Ginsberg foot on accelerator!
IV
O Dope-minded needle father!
Offered up in cruel world tooth brush pajama mode!
O Hallucinating swan lord of Golden Gate Park!
You hold open a door!
Yr drugs are a hat a mind a trip
eating eating eating
All self
While writing a poem
Each line is a train bearing down the tracks
On some prick/prisoner of
Sunflower blow jobs, who enters
Pissing out mantras of
Sensual second comings
V
O Moloch’s great window washer!
O Shadow-less airplane casting curtsies upon masses!
O Moloch poet of Moloch Dada!
O Dazed evenings walking Methadone streets & aves!
As one lost piece of epic
You swear into heaven
Swearing up & down
VI
Allen Ginsberg says: OK, I’m carnal
Theg old fish is dreaming
I am Gertrude Stein
You are Nothing False Can Last
Who is that marshmallow Beatnik
Thumbing his eyelashes at?
But what makes a poem a poem, an eyelash a poet?
A sunflower an Allen Ginsberg?
Is it not one small
Step for laughing man?
One giant peyote wad
Of Love mankind?
Redux: The Mythos of Winter 1939
I.
My cold hands fumble
With Maxwell VHS tape box
Anticipating replay: (& simulacra
of replay)
The dog is a diamond
Down on all fours
& happy
We are the Lumpenmensch of Oz
Considering a history of history
(A mood)
We are wooden-souls-trapped-in-sparkling-wine-types
Let us not haggle over
Minor points
Let us take meaning from the cold and bracing ice instead
Our flesh is one flesh
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
The woman has breath I can see
She stands in a free place
Some silly silly lunar mythology
Has taken death for a walk
& left her behind
To get her story straight
This is all media driven
Hype of the first order
Something frozen has her by the throat
Brittle crystals
Implicate her eyes & lips
A leveraged existence is killing imprisoned Poles
& Czechs
During winter 1939
They had no rewind then
II.
We were sitting across from Maryknoll nuns
Waiting for Space Mountain
One of the nuns called Walt Disney
A clever devil
An evil genius
& stared in wonder
At his creation
On my head sat
The black hat of space-time
I remember feeling blatant cool black
Daunting holy & dissembling
As someone
Who is dead
Feels a lover’s chilling final kiss
Saying goodbye
The dog is allegorical
So is Walt
So are we
We are angles
Seen from all sides
We levitate &
Coerce possibilities
I recall one winter…alone
There was a wood burning stove
& a book of Zen speculations
Stood out among all the others
Clarifying little
Or nothing at all
& a second winter
In which you animated Time
Unrelentingly
You called me
Yr wet-headed Fascist lover boy
I came from the future, you sd
You named me Mussolini the Mouse
You thought the name funny
And me absurd
III.
I’d fallen back in
Out of the howling blizzard
Outside the walls
I stamped both my feet
Shaking off snow
“Look,” I sd. “Crystals!”
“Can’t anyone prove they have souls?”
The tv was on
It was color, HD, etc
& about to record:
Wyndham Lewis hailing a taxi!
In his left hand a book
In his right hand
An ego
A thing black as the plague
“Por favor, Mr. Green.
We mustn’t dwell too long on sorrowful details
Or the story won’t hold.”
IV.
Even secluded from the world
A word proves each winter memory
A saint
A martyr
Canonized by silence so vivid
That nothing seems possible
Or real
Without it
Not even the white & blue
Time lapse dazzle
Of ambiguous winter
With which we share a splinter of meaning
Encasing
Each starving-mouse-thought
Absolute
As what seems clairvoyance
Purgative
As spring
& as the frost bite bites
I rewind the tape—
The dog whimpers
Wanting out
His ears fiery with praise
& sacrosanct shit
Bulging his anus
The half familiar face of the moon
Gives pause
To his master
Who senses a fever
Inherent in nature
Whose tracks in the snow
Are eerily cliché
& thus symbolic
Or eerily symbolic
& thus cliché
Tonight, there is no going
Anywhere
Near the ending.
Raymond Farr is author of Rien Ici, big strange wall, DRUNKER/holding ember, Starched, Variably Distorted Lad, sic transit g, Purple Mountain Believers, A Birth of what among Heirlooms, and There Is Something Missing in the Whole Transaction between Us, all available at Blue & Yellow Dog Book Shop (www.lulu.com/spotlight/blueandyellowdogpress). His latest book in print is Ecstatic./of facts (Otoliths 2011). He has published 3 ebooks: chainge (Chalk Editions 2011); Two Texts (Chalk Editions 2010) available on line at (www.scribd.com/chalkeditions), and Writing What For? Across the Mourning Sky (Argotist Ebooks 2012). He is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog (http://blueyellowdog.weebly.com).
gobbet 
Holy fuck. Nice work.