CARLOS LARA
NEON REMAINS
I see no comedy in the way I look at it as a foreign glowing a harrowing of what art is in the skull
totally out of the fade he admitted anomalies of the whole the really jettisoned parts of deities
we’re wasting our lives no doubt about that ensconced but lost like some kind of organic Kierkegaard
still grasping at a way to make the bed a more permanent thing to string up financial babes in paradise
she can’t actually hang the gold or wear the dolls we live in other powers of closeness unwanting infatuated
auras don’t leave the judicial sleep we’re going to be way in Providence hunting pleasure at the villa
martyrs of the grey serene blows my aqua cheddar my one-sized ring my hazmat alphabet under lovers
we don’t bleed we barely look at the despondent air hotels still within the week still nicely in the snow
most eyes are bereft of the penis most knights have an inner light of pause and garbage and summer cars
it is us as one now born now higher now stationed with borrowed muscle don’t hold me so long
appropriately this music is candid Homeric breaking friends apart who come to the luxurious age of shrimp
no more drawing in the wavelengths there should be signs in the social praxis the compound business strategy
one malignant playground one phantom Brooklynite fitting the surreal within the jurisdiction of squirrels
once I imagined clearly the single suburban tampon in a feud of roses in the normal wings of sacrilege
and the taxis of orchestral matrons came with me and I was happy in the light of that happy
NEON REMAINS
it’s so like you to be uncrucified to be loosed upon the walking hoe and velocitous oyster of all else
ambivalent stardust recidivist wandering over glib in the strawman parish you zoom among grass
you net the living incest of the metric sun its quadrants solo in a pungent matter a way is found
a luncheon of athanor a temple above the neck you are grey and white in the swipe of orchards injuriously
measuring whips by magnetization having one long maddeningly wavering like salt on the cusp or stunt
cold sphynx emporium whom have you bought with time if this is your first wave this is the time
tracing two Olympic elements like a droll whale the suite of no noise the Friday of all colors there is pure pain
like when we revived your chevron head your fat intuitive sanctum your Jaime Saenz saying of every crux
of course there are satellites too unique for seasons for popularity for the grasp of the golden door
elevators of ink open onto old children and what happens you do not have Jesus in your heart girl
yellow milk yellow charcoal I want you on me in all the games of gun nights in the sappy stirring of outcasts
diablos begin to question these me zones the something something of comic books of French or Korean love
I’ve seen you tattooed in pink your little eyes predating nothing but maleness or cortical valleys of throes
and then this life became the last thing to advance like the methods of palm trees or else the idea of them
this is a deck of playing cards this is the high ancient actuality pouring the chimaeras out of whomever
the flashing lights have always been for those who qualify and the horses of life are shot on sight forever
NEON REMAINS
you whose barking shutters the ghosts whose quays are enlivened prism feeders releasing dogma
I dream abroad in the imageless heart in the scoopy afterlife Marlboro Reds plain badgerer
sodomized feijoa commandeering fucking feijoa it all came back to me like that drinks many drinks
what is this hammerless excision Kabul pattern doing in a little jettisoned meat what about elocution
the guy says if the classics had a wide circulation the guy says fat Earth terrestrial pterodactyl soup
oh my eyes warm burger fistulated evening journeys come to me she comes to me to warn me of Oman
but my tumors supply purrs and I mean that white man I mean a brief dismissal of Chateaubriand
baked organic crunchy pea snack the fertile public the nerve of reversal accompanies a charm of kernels
Cedar Rapids state securities guys aliment going nowhere neither Marlon Brando would do it
the wealth of the calamity of the Char bank transitioning from found world to ape door
my performance to achieve the effects of life through all uncertainty of course poetry is not for reading
wicked in a way olive if you have what I don’t I’ll tell you about the mind in front of anchors and pearls
common to be the cause of god certainly the wild boat certainly authors will squeal into nothingness whoa
all day understanding the scheme of schemes she cried a little bit the plans were all airplane or blackface
the banks don’t kid themselves kid everyone attempting to squeeze everywhere in a holy communion of .22s
translating Eluard on Ka’anapali Beach and where do the dead go feeble peculiar glamour and yeah
Carlos Lara lives in Los Angeles. He studied at UCLA and Brown. He has co-written a book with Will Alexander, called The Audiographic As Data, which was released recently by Oyster Moon Press. His book-length poem The Green Record is forthcoming from Apostrophe Books. His poetry and translations have appeared in Lana Turner, Aufgabe, Omniverse, comma, Dusie, and many other places. He can be found at carlosrichardlara.com.