Sheila Murphy


Music nominates worlds
Imprecise to open into
Squares of specificity.
A young man

Caught in yarn becomes
A memory, a mammal
Lying in state. Clothes
Change how he would be

Recuperatively in charge
Of lacings and frail worlds
At least as solitary as
Restorative card-carried luster.

Maybe I underestimate
The fervor in a handful
Of remains. The bother
Is the slipshod

Moderato molding
Chastity with simmerance
Before the fold
Of night.

And Silhouettes

I episode my way through
Exegesis maybe once a weekend
To then twill along with weeds
And silhouettes of better blooms

In training. I'm like heathens
When I row out to the lake's
Mid-section, following
The foreground hue

Of moon against a backdrop
That is like my dress
During another mid-day.
How infallible are mendicants

With words to say
Formed as replies,
But edicts just the copper same.
How do I camouflage

My extemporaneous
New files to go with
Sedentary long-lived winter
When I dream the dream

Is of an eloquence
Explicitly and casually
Sexual. I mean the arrows
Necessarily refrain from

Pointing any way. Some turn
To crosses of volition. Circular
Quay amazes me with its
Amplicity, the easy wear

Without a break
In common sense.
See the fig trees
Trying to dry

Evidence. Look at the margins
On these groping leaves.
My life is canvas
Any day now.
In a mid-term squeeze,
I eloquate my fallibility
Into a spurned cavity involving
How you say exactly what

And with such furnace
Chafing, all about
The world are weather vanes
Pointing to letters

That would stand for
Major scales erupted
From melodic minor
Downturns in a stage.

Temple / Template

I was not prepared for ice-floe blue
Where filmed aquamarine thought its way into
A photo improvised from granular appearance
On the author's page.

Hers was a sure and stately humor
Grasping not a missed thing
About a life in flux
Whose luxury has been basked

Where we were born.
And I was bald as any brand new child
Unclothed in feeling when I saw her first
As cool with bicycle

As I am not, the headlines
Might usurp an accurate
Retraction. Is it easier
To leave a world before

Embracing it, and if so, when,
And yet the milk in villages
Runs long as something
Improvised at length from form.

Is form always a rodeo?
I don't know selfing but I understand
What's likeable enough.
What's crewing is the varicose

Behind the fret-blue calling
Of a word tie bit by
Hamper greed, the linger power
Of driving on a train

Through haywire stamina
To mend loose bits into
A statuesque montage
Unlike a mother-sweet

Dull daft mood swollen
Like the best of lumber
As we pass our capability by
Talking them to sleep.
The mean-time gradually cameras
Its way into a memory
That might be vivid,
Might be cramped into

That does not
Fit, not expertly
At least


I want a drop times twelve
Of Irish breakfast tea and milk
So I can function
Out of the called realm
Upwards of parataxis

And I want a woven unfurled luster
Of new grammar to be poised
Right where I'm focusing

I think I will sip tea
Beyond the locust norm in
Snub-nosed peace while
Kippering along the rows
Of pie sweet optimum contrarias

I want a window seat
On God's mimetic oratorio
So when I'm baked I will be
Sorry evermore to bend the bleed
Of my contrition

Optical enthusiasm fuses
With connective gold selection
Minus the release that follows

I tell myself in theory
Arguments simply depose us
Of our wit and semblature

Whatever chamber ordinals
My way through to the dorm,
I migrate notches way ahead
Of angels

I arc my way ahead
Of chamber music on the
Horseflies that carouse
Above my head

This is a farm that beats with
Full hewn heart, it's musty
Dark outside the west leaning
Parameters by bus

A little of my headlines
Glower past the world as
Statuesque endorphins
Diversified and still
At liberty to seem perfect falsetto
When the wheat returns to crumbs

I've had enough of gold strands
Laving a mimetic silver
Tribes of me are tough
As found grail, when I sing
I'm nullified, and
When the sun dampens
The look and feel of wall
Tones tummying against
My frail captivity, I'm scathed
And tongue-in-cheek apart from
All the haze of singing
In the ostinato frame of earth

I sheathe the holy worth of lamplight
Falling against chosen skin of yours,
The pulp of purplesse
Calling like the irises
First wholly touched

Some Sunday there will be
Reciprocal return of serve
I'm stumbling now toward
Your girth as small as
Lingua franca purring to
The near-term earth
As fallen as the daze
Across my woolen fall
Guy lookalike to cuddle
Then fierce touch

I trade my cards for smooth
Rapidity, I take my case
From part of the awake light
Leaning on the purpose of a park
Dimensions fry our kind
Of heaven's nest, it's best
To frame our trade with
Kismet that remembers France
Is never very far from
When times have come and gone
There will be opportunity to cross
Most of the water,
Cup of tea? I guess.
And that is all the opening
Most persons ought to need.

Mon Frere

Here is how we divvy up our darling reverie,
We slump into a leather chair as sumptuous
As mother chairs
Without a rasp of hesitation
We whisper where she offers
To be fair, we take a breather
From sharp angles
Rusing their way into show case
Air winds down guitar chutes
In tincture fretware
Lost to anger worlds
Entreatingly a snare leaves home
To wilt without a care
The altar breezeways fraying
To production time I roam
Fairly in touch with chair,
Still wherewithal, the stairs

How Are You I Said and He Said I Am At My Best When I See You

Would you define this as eternal morning?

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