Raymond Farr

Something True

He thinks
He’s something

Playing God—
A lifetime

Hitting imaginary keys
On God’s

Ironic typewriter
Take down these imaginary walls!

Or the neighbor kid gets it!

He types

This is law
Number one—

Is funny

A thing
On which truth

Is a vacuum
Overlooks a window

With northern

It wobbles strangely
Up ahead

Like a small dog
Like an ironic typewriter

It endures
As cars pass—

Or something
Just as circumspect

But flowers

From a rifle barrel
Are what he

In the back of

A Mayflower
Moving van

from Long Live the Synthesized Personage

In the absence
Of a juke box

My presence
Is the stillness

Of a turned off

A wild empty

I am looking for
The last of my

I have no relation

To Time
But keep talking

Just the same
& like hope

I have no reason
To be defined as such

My words are feet
& hands

Pushing a

Shopping cart
Out into traffic

His real name
Was Mutt or something

A yellow sentence he pissed on a wall
He was one millionth sheep dog

That was the joke
He was reinventing himself

Wavering over asphalt
It was just realism, I guess

That got to him
His face white as pure Horse

His pupils from here to eternity
He puked on that car

& stole that book—Zoo Station

& then read it aloud
& then wept like it mattered

That he wept
& all night he played killer—

Psycho Killer!
He’d sooner change the world

& all of you
Than not

Long live the Fugue!
Long live

The synthesized

, Than Music of Maples

I am a boot
Of Milan

The largest commercial source of


on this western track of
glee reminds us—

Casino dolls masturbate the microfiche deader

, than music of maples

, than unsullied Djuna

Pushing up
, doing ten or eleven

A railroad is process—

Not governor
Or sprout—

Stirred by simple protocol

The entire aspect holds court in its hands I am dynamite

Non-sense being
The now vacant automat

As a g-spot


A black shadow of moustache
Is torn from a face

Gobbles up ten thousand mouths
Like that’s not a problem

For degenerate Futurists!
Why have we come here looking surreal?!

Our tongue is a blade of black rabbit strangeness
A penguin idolatry we pull from a top hat

                Here someone stands near us
Telling us we should never have come

The corridors are cold here
Too cold

& someone has scrawled
All we need is love & armadillos

All over a wall

In 2190

Do the buildings all float?
Or do they explode?

Do folks still find God in the anarchic derangement of their senses?
As off in the distance a new Emerald City harbors survivors?

How is the sushi in 2190?
Are the people all clones of the people I know here in my century?

I think we lost a beautiful day
Just looking at


Raymond Farr is author of Ecstatic/.of facts (Otoliths 2011), & Writing What For? across the Mourning Sky (Blue & Yellow Dog 2012). His poems appear in And/Or, West Wind Review, Otoliths, Upstairs at Duroc, Cricket On Line, & Eratio. He has a chapbook, Eating the Word NOISE! which is slated for February 2015 publication by White Knuckle Chaps & another full length collection of poems Poetry in the Age of Zero Grav due out from Blue & Yellow Dog in mid 2015. He is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog http://blueyellowdog.weebly.com.
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