Raymond Farr lives in Ocala, FL. He has published widely in recent years. His work appears in Otoliths, Cricket On Line Review, BlazeVox2kX, Letterbox, Ditch, The Argotist On Line, Cannot Exist, EOAGH, Moria, Out of Nothing, Clutching at Straws, Kill Author, Text Base, Xstream, & Apocryphal Text. He had several poems included in the first Sidebrow Anthology and guest edited issue 6 of Pinstripe Fedora. His chap book, Two Hats Appear When Applauded, is available free at Dusie. All four of his poetry books may be previewed and purchased at the Blue & Yellow Dog Book Shop. Visit his blog mjonesrview for email info, updates on Blue & Yellow Dog, and more samples of his work. He is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog.
O spoken wheel momentarily seizing! Play rewind kiss vomit kiss. Collapsing alternate realities. Of small vices you cant. Explain, please. The inexplicable. The trolling hallucinations. Haunting yr Hair Club for Men. Like specters of dead. & deader magic realism. The magic of limits. On a slide trombone. Mumbling / Operatic / Druidic: Egrets, I have a few. But then again too few to mention. In this way the eye gets carried. Backwards home.
A cot between. A bowl of light. Is stricture. Seen deeper. Than a grape. Of Paul Éluard. Bicycle seat turned sea shell. Stooped in wonder. Inside out. A fraction of. Slide trombone. In eighths. In halves. In quarters. Disregard the cat function on yr Sony Play Station II. Disgorge any quotes. Resembling. Notes to a self. Ejaculate multiple pomes. In prominent volumes. Immaculate as a corn cob. Before you wipe yr ass. With love.
Proceed to make yrself. Filthy. Spoons I don’t love. Any event measured in niblettes eaten. A synapse traveled thru. By spatial impasses. Is a duty. Of reckoning gnoets. Flarfists, etc. Brawling dueling grist mills. Overtly in flux. Alone. The quirks of. Half a halo. Hang by a moniker. Obsequious mirroirs. So deliriously. In frame. For cities alone. Provide nature. A beast. The donkey of self-grooming. Grooms himself. Wildly. On a stair.
Yellow wafting penultimate. Curved objective adjectives. Of sexual kiosks. At forenoon. A small bubble of sunlight. Scaffolds. Scattered across breeched impediments. Arch between. Clouds. & alternate routes to Magic Kingdoms. Redundant in their yellow wafting penultimate. Curved still-life. Of adjectives. Sing of a cunning practiced by. Peering. At a mouse peer. Of feverishly trochaic insistence on. Pear & pier. The groove in the earth. Abandoned by. Almighty hens. Sucking. Dumby.
Piano movers milling about. Take lunch. For a fox trot. Or Macarena. In this manor. The mind is vomit. Each word a trapping. Makes sandwiches of marvels. The task between tusks. Is often Paul. , you are. Stroked out calamari. Beach attitude just north of. Folded gates. Twins at radio. Of indefinite. Articles. Such as mouse, &/or a cotton gin. Not in. Proportionate anabasis. Why not say or write. What it is to imagine that thing. One lacks a feeling for? In one’s arm. A clock has a moustache. Big old & fraud. In one’s mind. One’s heart missing a chamber. Pulls up a beet. Snickers out of. Doors. One’s mind a level. On a level. On a level. So pearly. & perilous to renegotiate. A blonde wind. Struts in schizophrenic corsage. Wasted along mansards which articulate. Blue. Blue. Fool’s Gold. Serendipity. Doo da. Doo da.
According to the swan’s owner. A nomad of sparking disinterest. A phobia of mania. Speaks petals of Alsace-Lorraine. Heady & raunchy as Ranch dressing. The mouse prince of dwarf space. Appears cuneiform. Pickles pickle toaster. Asks nothing of Robespierre. His etiquette counters thrust of twisting rivers. With semes of. Nightmares. Twining. Observant bird. Perched on a deck. A blank. Of multifold experiences launches. Cruel rye slutty. The aftermath of Bath’s wife.
Twenty or so fiery wigs. Up &. Down whole bottles of absinthe. In locksmith school. I studied the face of. Cabaret Voltaire. In Café Hair. Ice is paid for. By crowns’ magician. Allotted by sameness. lazy eye. Number eight &. Half an aardvark is king tonight. Get out the steak knives. Olives’re my balls. A frame in which a picture sits. Down. Chin after chin. Of post-historical. Wild inside cabin pressures. Building.
In the former head of former painter Francis Bacon I am the survivor of the deconstruction of his over wrought canvases I am his wreck social cannibal gun runner HP technician at school ZAP! I’m a zoophyte My patterns emerge thru solace & the death defying stunts I perform on my unbalanced Goodyear tires The derivation of which is not the number nine or the ancient toy globe of a very small sadistic clinician pausing at Bacon’s transfixing video machine He fixes all their wagons Distorts both method & result This is a place & a strangeness in which I collect myself Vigilant in the shadow of The Flat Earth Society shouting “Bacon must die!” I hallucinate gazebos In my right hand In my insane mind I am signing bad elephant jokes under the guise of discussing Bacon’s Prankster Spirit I am Jojo the pachyderm I exist in the crux of cross purposes Both human & abstract I must speak & be rubber in order to be heard in the wood of the rafters I enter a bar NO! I walk into this bar and order a snoot full adorned in Bacon’s mother’s sequin halter & get tortured by Bacon I have ruffles at my cuffs He sets me on fire and paints while I scream His shrimp boats are more surreal than terror itself His use of flat affect sodomizes flesh at the speed of light 300,000 kilometers per second His images distort faces of customers shopping for health aids In the blue light of sodomy I put up a leaf & sigh little girl little fantasy I am the lover of contact cement you shiver against when ordered to submit & obey It is the writing of the painting of unnatural acts / the murderous dead end relationships that yield only a yield sign that Bacon performs like a maestro I have sent out the truth in a basket of weeds My night light a shadow My death my execution a brushstroke on flesh What has a rabbi & no legs but green sickness in the Panama of hats? Give up? Whatever is culpable spins in the balance Our concretized eyes drop kittens like burdens that we bake in a flurry My melanin takes shape as I am finding my way My life is identical to the death of the ball turret gunner Bacon has eggs What have I but this life I abandon to Bacon? The desecration of the beautiful & false spasms of my innocence? From which I recoil like a lecherous uncle If I pause in tape deck audience participation If I sputter complexity supremely Am I trapped in the death of the hired man? Am I softer than gold dust? Must I butter my egg roll? Is my death the death of the author of the author? The foyer is jammed with electrical circuits misfiring What about Jojo? His tongue sizzles in Bacon’s charnel house burlesque review What about Bacon scratching the surface of our left brain / our right brain? He defrags my hard drive His mind is impeccable frozen yogurt Frozen like fur in my mind But who cld know this? Who cld understand? I am one who considers Francis Bacon a smoke signal angel Zapped! By heavy volts of historical frgmnts He kills & reformulates the intelligent dimes He paints over the glossy beatitudes of paradise splattered with human blood He touches the sublime made palpable & flat by renegade hands In the name of a room overlooking the Lethe I position a chair with no legs Near a phone no one can dial I shit half mad in stifling water closets where Bacon poses his dead in figuration If I’m darker than what Then I’m darker than what, Francis Bacon? Who is it emails my kitchen? SPAMS all my senses? Roiled in jut mania one harbor away? I am Chinese in the firecracker air just above zoo The sexual midgets flaunt my disease I am not fucking evidence I am a subject I am the lurking third wonderment lying down like a corpse Estranged from my god I stand firm on my principles & jerk off all my pets I cling like smoke tainted by outdated stand up routines Pinned & wriggling the wall is an outrage The point of a Rave is to blast it all from your mind—the art work of death at the hands of Francis Bacon! I snicker at Francis Bacon & sperm oozes from my heart My toes blacken with leprosy My penis My duodenum convulse unintelligibly The essence of merde scumbles every vantage point Every image is cucka trapped in the former head of former painter Francis Bacon In that proud moment my father is Dada My postmodern heart levels a shotgun Fear in a handful of capsules is not a ridiculous fear But neither is it echoes’ double murder / suicide in the former head of former painter Francis Bacon In Bacon’s painting: One of three studies for a Crucifixion an iPod on LOUD gives head like a ghost Ghosted against smoky thin Danielle (Who is not a shot bird in the sense that she is not a shot dove Shot in crisp winter sunlight) Her tea bag’s a crushed voice box Her son is a worm sired by syphilitic Bacon If not paint on canvas & wood at the Musee du Nuit en le Void then infants are drowned in fetid buckets of fetid water There is no end I am a plot line of straight lines & punch lines faltering to gore I am sold / She is available only at Kmart I am yesterday noon The inhuman cocktail too weary of madness to put down her throat In the next room is a comic A rutabaga slid up the ass of a corpse I pass out in a corridor I am stinging with mirrors I am posing for Bacon & Bacon is bacon I laugh & I’m horrified I twist out of my spine Bacon goes crazy He lifts up my arm & pulls down my pants I cry out to him & he says “I am ready now. Don’t move a muscle or change your expression.” Danielle is stretching her ballerina legs in the wings of Bacon’s studio just out of frame The dust has an odor I can’t quite recall I sicken the birds cooing at the window where light has settled & the floor is wooden & creaks when I breathe So I stop breathing & Bacon says “Good. That’s what I’m looking for. The essence of rigor.”
Arrhe is to art as
Given: 1st the waterfall
My sculpture is composed. It is decaying at a rate. I have measured the most improbable body of matter. & that is called methane. A chipped tooth. A dull routine. My timing is ruined. Marcel Duchamp is swinging an eel above the head of & at the muddy feet of Marcel Duchamp. Methane is swinging Marcel Duchamp at the electrical face on my pillow. He is setting out candles. My gag loves to eat waffles, making shitte that is to shit as arrhe is to art. & this makes the wait here a funeral. A body of methane strips glue from my balls. My art is a blue, blue party dress taken as fantastic love making. In the arms of a decadence. The thunder of methane grows peaches of sex that are shit in me. I get up on stage. My scene with the earth worms has put on my face. The stench is believable yet no one believes it. I am the black death of Lisbon. But, please, call me Methane. I am searching for something. I walk out at night with death in the surreal garden. We stumble across methane taking some air. We take what we need from a pile of what’s present. I alter my global template with a tentative flick of my impossible wrist. Am I wrong to love methane? I am you. You are relevant because…I desire water in my egg cell. My acquaintance is marble. I roll him in games. Avoid breeding yr children, says methane, with Anatolian sheep dogs. My leg has a defect. My life is all wobbly. A gas can of methane headed, fiery, downhill. A turd of green & purple zeitgeist shines until bloody. A pizza for dinner has pizza for lunch. Methane stays home munching on hard tack. Smashing into bittersweet methane I clobber the taste of it. A gas bubble forms, holding me up. I try & express my super (mock) human efflorescence in a menial job but our guide is a cloud of stultifying methane. These are yr catacombs, dearest. Mine is a condo near Boca Raton. There is life in both places meaning, both locations are a species of death. If we shut down the safe mode…our ethics are confounded. & the basis of what? In the church yard where Rover, our blonde Shetland pony, has disguised all the corpses, one is never quite certain if the someone one speaks with is fluent in methane. What is it now? You have yr beliefs. Yr belief system has failed you. How sad & banal. Bent on destruction of. The difference between a good morbid death & a great one is lore. & possibly an earthquake. I can love it to death. I can eat it like methane. In my weakened condition I have nothing but answers. I find I have solved something. That otherwise I might love you.
available from Otoliths
In ECSTATIC/.of facts Raymond Farr brilliantly investigates the relationship between language, meaning and culture by vividly demonstrating how language can shape worlds. In an insightful and stimulating journey, Farr takes an intense and often playful walk through landscapes of significance in which we are faced with the “Onslaught of language,” only to find that the “amber light of meaning stares back.” To discover meaning in something as “fundamental as chaos,” we need go no further than American suburban culture of generic mega stores, chain restaurants, popular music and blockbuster movies. Reframing these ubiquitous icons in discursive language results in an effect rather like “Marcel Duchamp…singing songs once sung by Doris Day.”
- John C. Goodman, editor of ditch, author of Naked Beauty (Blue & Yellow Dog Press) and The Shepherd's Elegy (The Knives Forks and Spoons Press)
No new cities are being built. That arrangement is palimpsest. Boroughs carved by a metonymy. And oscillation. One may artery about thing, about a place, or both. Each fact is a tenement to situation a place from which oscillations are discerned. ECSTATIC/.of facts courses within this layout, and Farr engages in no liminal simplification charting arrays of snarl.
—Matthew Johnstone, author of Let’s be close Rope to mast, you Old light
Cold, hard facts: not! As Raymond Farr demonstrates in this wonderful new collection, facts are the serendipity of the real. Farr takes sentences and fragments, and he builds tenements of facts from the sky downward. His gift to readers is a city of the materiality of language and of what is absolutely, astonishingly material to life. In Farr’s words, “The facts are convincing. I am one hungry carnivore.”