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Raymond Farr
This Blousy Domesticity
The tabloids report
Hart Crane’s death
On a moving
Flat bed
Is immanent
& so who can blame us
If we never come clean?
Attack dogs
Into submission
Take some getting used to
It’s like too much illusion munching the Kellogg’s
Our hair smelling like apples stewing
On the stove
It’s like too much blackbird for her sensible dress
& we can’t write our way out of
This blousy domesticity
This dish washer full
Of spawning trout
Growing Elevator Mutton
White clouds clumped like haystacks
Painted on slivers of wood flying out of
Tunnels—a thought in its rippling
Is identical to a field of blue sky the same faces the owl
Hooked on what the eyes capture & cannot hold
The all white death the young swans dredged like old dead swans
The religious whiskey of my loneliness dripping
From Tweety Bird lawn ornaments the local kids disfigure
Growing elevator mutton on my lips my smile is a book of pink wounds
A kind of angst as empty as the bottles we drink from ironically
A can of Keanu Reeves is like chewing gum
Watching a man getting a blow job
& out here in space—Google me, God!
I am pure human on the edge of 17
Yonder Is the Pink Cadillac of Sunset
Making a level place
Of reinterpreting the world
The evil sugar bowl just gets us--
I’ve seen [plus or minus] so many things!
But the heart is an ember
Scratching out polluted poems
& I love you like I love pure bologna
From the secret square
Yonder is the pink Cadillac of the sunset
One molasses, two molasses—you get the idea
Let’s go down town to the squad room
& falsify some legal documents
That’ll be the day that I die--
One music to fill us!
Home
About
Our Story
Masthead
Submit
Submission Guidelines
Submit Here
Book Review Submissions
Features
Interviews
Book Reviews
Previous Issues
Blog
Contact