you're up early or is that late how does the ground this broken twofold yada yada cuspic walk do you deliriate alone or in communion by these topiaries woven stuck
You have a daughter To be rich like this is lavish A woman who will always be your child Her eyesight and the breath you made That you can touch with thought
And the thought of water as this summer turns to sea You share with her some blue light You believe her whispers Never separate from your hearing and your eyes She is your evidence you are responsible and not responsible
Look at the wide line of the incoming sea Look at the footprints being soon erased As water comes to take the marks And meld them back to sea
And when the water dries from bodies Thoughts with dance subside into a kind of sleeping Fast asleep's a lovely contradiction
And the motion of the thinking lasts Unreasoned feel lost to sea
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aureole of a star traveled i by tongue swollen breasts balloon nebulas spooked rouge baby what swampy sky did you fall from spanked and special see i'm haunted by this thing that you do it went something like this i'm a louse tangled up spangled there's room for two on this unnameable raft climb aboard let's get stoned turn the radio on make out drunk on unfilmed film of our bodies swaying back and forth pumping or thrusting AM to PM by god if this isn't the damnedest wouldn't you agree this should be illegal fortunately for you and i it is not
http://www.lulu.com/content/840898 The Case of the Lost Objective (Case) by Sheila E. Murphy Description:
This vibrant collection of new work by Sheila E. Murphy encompasses both lineated and prose poems. In addition, for the first time, selected prints of Murphy’s visual poetry, some included in private collections and in gallery exhibitions, are presented in book format. The range of work within these pages attests to the versatility and depth of this poet, and invites being read aloud to reveal the full range of perception and innovative use of language.
In Lorca’s yawl of penultimate paradigms this world’s a charade smokes papa abnormally his mind is a coffin blacker than lignite his tone is existence contains the axe of his foot
His tale is a prop colder than loci, yelling “In six tales of two horrors swimming ashore Tampa’s a murder mentates impossibly—
the Lorca of shells shining upon strands the Lorca of alleys & hallucinations eminent at limits the Lorca of puppet-glory sailing towards death propped on one leg.”
His dream’s a flamingo wracks him with saddles him meaning the watery distillates of what are his chances
In that hour of grievance lost on reflection… In that theater of circumstance gold as a beard… Lorca’s a digger if not as a grave his lips such a monkey his papa a mango pinker than twilight
i'm so in that i forgot what i was saying of the many who could i am the one that might i've potential you see i am set apart as if i am the technicolor to their black and white
floaty in the ether i want to get all dirty in your supply doubt and desire are odd bedfellows no i've graduated from handcuffs means i yearn
runaway loving flame give us denations give us as if the forgetting were the reclaiming is destiny with us always sultry as ever omnipotent lounging on her ottoman our demons are our demons they taste us each and every our venusian leashes keep us close only when we want this is the root i've this overwhelming urge to fuck the shit out of you better to say it now than later don't get all up in our business the apocalypse opens early everyday
"We're on my hands and knees in times of winding We night it's only when we civilize that worm For vagrant time we need it What secret of your knowing is there beginning?" --The Melvins
Drank tea With his Kennedy Sphinx (Never knowing Gun) Pyramid of mind's EYe.
Smoked Opium With the Caliph of Tides. Salt verse Left in sand.
Lived longer Than any real poet has Right too.
Wore the Secret Poetry Decoder Ring... Crackerjack, It all came Mushrooms & Caterpillars.
Losing days That Civilized worm (My problem of Alice) Let me wrap my lips 'round till Calliope sings. This is the -day- No PIG dies Hooka. Another chance to feel--
The song "Civilized Worm" by The Melvins is the inspiration for this piece. But other than those two words that's about all they have in common other than the "trippy" feeling of both.
For some it was Apollo— men golfing on the moon at last ********& conjunct with Lorca, Federico Garcia pretenses utter/enact unsamenesses at Ybor City *********MONKS opposite the CIVILIZED Tampa Bay ruminate like madmen ****[Upon this continent… our ZOOM lense paints wallops [a whole while cum horse power **********For alone-man’s a wash board totes the fracture of ice **********His sod rites speak Darwin Look astronauts look upward **********His round up writes Lorca All bonkers itch fly down caught upon sheaves
a pelt is less wearing than full presence when experience grows replete
one wants to swallow neglect whole and to be safe hold evidence like armor to the self
whatever poison you've been meaning to release has grown synonymous with you
I like to think in peace the idea has no sensory fact no implications no breathalizer and no hate
it's Tuesday evening and nothing beyond itself enclosed between some other weekdays and my aspirations as they play themselves out into a wilderness of full recovery
periscope word on the street is that i've haunted you like you me laying in that bed the peeling yellowish wallpaper how did it feel the man with machine guns in his eyes salt and peppering reality with blows so false so transparent aims at you
glad you've saved your hair for your baby and your body you've saved you've healed the wounds of separation in the many masterpieces that hot love can create jumping through halos of night on fiery feet to salvation possessed by this wanting in like joyous outcasts
altar above the horizon of your hips a factory stands tall blowing smoke and a kid blows bubbles
altar i'm alterred somehow changed in this struggling to become familiar and right lunar i love because i know how to
altar the liars can't squid you squint to the sunshine in our rooms and rooms everything happens here everything happens there everything including this
ART’s pointless perspective [the allure, how are you?] upsifts images frozen to radios
Makes poems about Tampa a sparrow or Lorca (now that he thinks of it) a sexism’s mnemonic doll head a village or pillagers’ charmed consensus.
ITs version of “Abigail” [in situ, a dark one] jots pint-size, aspirin-like haiku (never sweeter than Suzie’s suites of sonic booms in metaphors) to chums, Javier & Manuel on myspace.com
& Lorca (on fire in cubby holes of identical squash patches) wrestles the evidence alar upon twos can only remark how late his dinner is
His words at The Pier veer icily gabbing with Dali Lucy & stick fingered Ricky Ricardo burgers & fries at Busch Gardens wilt with the persistence of memory strictly a poetic’s dogmatic affair emphatic in the breach of often a node canters towards spans a December traffic jams jam Dale Mabry up every word a nightingale posed upon tarpon & skirted in red Lorca remarks how bluer horses are than torch songs imagines a bridge fogbound in tempo
today's low point the impatience with her determine connections dissed him in the first place amuses you with the pheromones of the sea with each possible joke the vibrations the eternal physical form of things inexact of the almost said where the existence looks moved beaten under the covers to see excess or if he is not empty closes eyes to a deep breathing in the necessity to happen and it creates this roadblock in the geography of youth expatiating stove of fantasy causing chains of noon that visualize aerial monitors for each possible place still all ignited lengthily those doubts of him to consult calculated in the external edges rehearse with a positive terrible voice begins to appreciate something to traverse the request of loitering in a gallery's echo scared to say because it is scared like that compassion she is not there marquees will not be useful desperation cannot be pleasure useless in the empty alcohol-ill fantasy that deceives time all the this that one can wander towards in absence interprets each possible thing in consideration of calm for the skies would wish to be good distant separated under like idiots for the woman in disorder would have him maintained as rat is dwarfed and more than this
polarities delimit more than they define all in relation to no north star(ttime) overage and under(r)age topography failing to relax chimes seeming rigid thus not quite sing(l)ing outages give rise to scarcity-based worship when worship is internal it is all the rage
Outbursts of clarity slide under the foreskin. The natural position of liquids addled and intervening. Notes glowing in full retreat, mere spoonfuls of the chromatic beginning. Any as according vividly recalled back into air-owned arias by a smoke sandwiched between petrified hills of metal and gardens of despair.
We pour that syncopation over some palindromic ago. Scarves collapsing the notion, doing research for overflows, brown-ringed antecedents longer by the twins. The taut carcass sentenced, fetal like sleepy variants that vanish suddenly from nostrils in the city of silos. Masked pools, stony haunches flicker with disgust as they squat an invisible nexus.
This day, those eyes, another curve.
Sprinkling and vice versa mirrored in their fiery limbs.
Pastel DNA a twitch fantasy to grandeur intercourse scrambled from a saxophone.
Head a few gyrations began strobing ends--Full over to falsetto How cruel springs in one dancing blue--Tough, pulsing within a Fear sentencing funnels and almost seventeen--Welcome to wheezing laughter The sphere drawng millions of lips to visceral rupture as fossil fuel
Stretched from sky to sky,
in a confluence of stuffed closets with mummified reason. A plastic cocoon has broken at the threshold of ambient swell. Ointment madly in love with the world, a nudge from pink pills aside. Devoured, a colony of dreamers becoming that particular sun for mere spoonfuls of light. To collect in swank circuitry, to pixilate an interzone of pursed contours like pulpy nohow in the drained moment.
do you live outside decency? where maggots salvage and serpents sabotage I saw you wearing rage whenever I collected bliss you giggled like a nuke when I bombed out like a leper and how burns your skeleton closet that seeds your hate? we could hitch to that strange strange country to swap lives and bones.
*******************The pilgrims huddle. Over there.**************************** ***********************Beside Walmart. Out of luck.*************************** ******************In jars.************* Made of walrus.*********************** *************************************** ***********************The story fails. To progess.**************************** *****************Because of.*********** Punctuation.*************************** *************************************** **************In Tampa.**************** Lorca.********************************* ***********Wallops oysters.************* On concrete.*************************** ***********************Counting.******* ******His fingers.********************** At six.*********************Before nine. *************************************** In one.***********Of his dialects.****** He drives up.********A Lincoln.******** But.**Ends up.******************A poem. *************************************** In the other.************************** *****************He's Whitman.******** *************************************** Stage-prop clouds.********************* ***************************Creak.****** In the wings.**************************
poetry by Josh Hanson, Noelle Kocot, Simon Perchik, James Belflower, Jen Tynes, Aaron Belz, Simon DeDeo, Adam Fieled, Francis Raven, Komninos Zervos, Paul Siegell, and Jake Berry.
oh lenee she's slowly losing her glisten as me i lay me down to listen to purple rain bottle of bourbon bedside anticipating my lips' languorous pronunciations a solo night of asking ease me out of pain as out of robes or shorts sheepishly too large to jostle me forth play air guitar teeming with discontent
a winder of a soft young river stills the feast of replication are you now or were you ever in the presence of a light chapeau above wheat hair and did you kiss the likeness there or here when you think do you revive the surface of oncoming daylight being sustenance itself as if unending peace would cover any chance of natural evaporation of the wish that blue melded with gray in motion at eye level would forever last
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