“Beautiful in a special way” Poems by Andrew Murphy, Image #GarryWinogrand

IMG_5743.JPG

A thousand prints, ​history of disappearance.

I am holding through the hand of a ghost

laying my individual swirl on the balsa bed

​sword across my throat. 

 

In order to forestall the inevitable misery of evening I imagine 

the delicate finger of a young woman, maybe as anxious as me, 

maybe thinking about the gun in her mother’s cabin… I close my

eyes and speak with her, while everyone around me laughs and

I cripple my moment to hear this history that I have invented to

keep myself alive. My heart skips and I am infuriated by the 

interruption, the presence of body in my 17thc science-

why wasn’t I made particle board or a piece of linoleum.

At least these scuffs would be get buffed out once a day by

people who care nothing about me more than a paycheque

and a promise of home.

 

 

I smoke the same cigarettes as you so I can know what your mouth tastes like.

It tells me more about you *** tells me more than your words. 

All the conversations, all the days watching your coat brush dirt off the floor, all your reflections cast and caught, living separate lives behind the carefully molded concrete, pacing back and forth stuck on assignments your flesh finished months ago. 

What did any of this tell me besides: you know nothing of her but movement, graces of hair and lips casting shadow over the day.

​​I look at a woman—she pulls her hood over her head and disappears. 

Exhaustion/

​Seared sugar hanging on the

​​Pebbled black.

​​​I can hardly—

Eye catches a line and follows it to the next reflection

​Of an urge to be distracted

Urge ruge grue regu urgh

​​​​​So many little mutterings—

​“Can I!_–“

​​“But if there—“

“She really—“

​​“You know what he’s like”

​Her thighs hold me for the m03other door

his receding back

​​packs me, dislike flattened to soda stomach

fizzing eyes———

​​they are ! this is— no one

​​​I am

Little phrases of impossibility dressed as stone lions sold and—

But let me

​​Allow me

Before its too late ​​can anyone HEAR ME

—​What is this?

​​Where am i?

Cream darkness. HELP HELP.

 

Frame:

the pebbled plastic hangs off arranged light-

ceiling, floor, walls:

the contour traced by fluorescence

cornered in falling black to give open ending—

​(in here!)

​​a big guy clothed in fantasy

women using bitch more virulently than I ever have—

​teething verbiage, hairy gestures, mutual stares established and broken

​​a made for tv movie hovering over the hairs on my arm…

 

Marred:

Wordsworth hovers in fable,

detached from both the beaten pulp re-press

and my aching, blind theatre-

​to be an edifice is to live 

through reinvention or astounding decay—

this shows signs of neither, croaking new worlds with hints

of i-to-whys and strangely textured reverberations,

iterating and shuddering like dust finally pointillated in the talkative

sunset.

—-fighting,

​Yes fighting,

only against itself—

​no, not fighting,

sleeping—

​not sleeping,

dreaming itself in another’s mind,

severed from drawing roots,

petulant veinings, sanctuary from season

​​​​​(though not from style).

Again I cough out the

vain words in 2X4 &

smiling wrenches

figuring experience on incompatibles—

 

a slack branch a-hems at the window

vying with decorative silence to point me

somewhere—

a little river of real light bends the dammed wall to breaking-

I smile for the first time in days in the throatless deluge,

the unruled paper.

 

I walk outside 

and take a 

breath. 

 

 

He mouths

and swallows his own eyes——————

​skirts twirl the ceiling into my hand and I rest my

    f i s t

​on the table in front of him

shimmering myself for his presence-

they’ve written books

​about this where I couldn’t see myself

and the gay character 

​​​ends up dead—

and I keep all this in my fist as I empty my head

​to his lips

as we dance around eachother holding the napkin

​drunk on prom night;

​​I think about opening

on his light

​coaxing the dew to my petalled lashes,

promising morning.

 

 

Beautiful in a special way—

eyes framed with black clouds

sunset hair in a short horizon

lips murmuring to her cardigan that 

peels the paint from the wall and slaps my

mirror cheeks with the neon red of her

wrapping.

 

When I take her picture home and pose it against the blushing glass of my window

​​​I can’t make it fit—

the two suns don’t touch,

the sky is cloudless and plain.

 

In haste I tear her up

while she clears her throat through the veil

of everyone else’s dreams,

spill my own theories onto the floor and 

sort through them under her burning,

somnolent I. 

 

 

She accidentally slips another 20

into the manicured hollow of your hand—

even in the surfeit crease you see divinity

and place the reward in your denim sepulcher.

 

​Her eyes are just like the slack-jaw drink 

​You take of sky-scraping windows,

​Just another obstacle in familiarity

​Written in every object that

​Organizes around you.

 

 

The wind blows the sun across the

short 

hill,

the tree jumps into its every geometry. 

 

I touch the edges of my frame,

chip,

and taste fireplace, mantle. 

 

 

Bathed in faces, nostrilled layups, well-cut fry fingers and celebrations

my skin keeps itself alive in oily awareness

of freedom from pedantry, conversational speeches, textbooks, broken smiles, poetic lists…

 

​Her assurance of my disillusionment suffers the consequence of poor design;

​inseparable from its own bitter foundation it collapses under the lost weight of personalities 

​she ceramicized and they softened:

- the chunk of uncertainty she vomited past assurance

- the eye that took time to spot

- the argyle cloth catching the skin’s lonely sobs…

 

through their antithesis a third option nibbles at our atrophied heels- 

our eyes too tired to look ahead and necks too stiff to swivel back, we sit

and stoke the road to fold,

the terminals to touch.

 

 

 

 

F.H Varley- Rocky Shore

 

The reproduced pixellations distort her eyes into something 

​smiling.

The shore bright and gay..

 

In this social, numbered lie

her hues separate from the leopard rocks;

​the plaster cast of a footprint

​drawn from ground now denying semblance. 

 

In this brief intimacy,

​the sky browns her shorn hair,

her dress melts to the blush of the hard rock,

her sleeves paint the even strokes of the distant ​hills….

she is swallowed by that which surrounds her,

​their lines more intent,

dark and alive.

 

One eye toward, one away–

with lips smudged to silence

​this is her way of denying the dominant hand

that left all life’s color

in a burst near her slackened arm.

Leave a Reply (Trolling Is Punishable by Death. Not kidding.)

%d bloggers like this: