Raymond Farr – 2 poems


He Put His Mouth Where His Poetry Was

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


He kanoodles his addiction

Putting on his underwear
one charm bracelet at a time 

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

By delusion.” 

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!   

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 

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 

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


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


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

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


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.” 


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

Each starving-mouse-thought 

As what seems clairvoyance 

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
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).

About gobbet

gobbet is a literary magazine dedicated to publishing the very best experimental poetry and prose. Intellectual perversity and explorations of dark themes are positively encouraged. We are only interested in work that is progressively experimental. We want to see risks, and we want to see them pay. No previously published work. Prose should not be longer than 1000 words. There are always exceptions. Send 3-5 poems. Include a short bio. Send submissions to gobbetmag@hotmail.co.uk Work will be published every 5-10 days. We also intend to publish anthologies of selected work published in gobbet. We will do our best to reply promptly. Most submissions will receive a decision within a month.
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1 Response to Raymond Farr – 2 poems

  1. Scott Keeney says:

    Holy fuck. Nice work.

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