Most pictures and words from Anthony C Murphy

Thursday, 1 September 2011


Her hair crumbles like applesauce in autumn
Her breath smells as felt
She sucks up my senses
I’m a tactile dyslexic
Like fingering fish that is smelt
Her laughter is conical
Her body atonal
She beckons me like a sphere
I’m an ophthalmic moron
An aural goofball
Whenever she is near me
I hear sponges and mushrooms
And loud zesty lemons
I see colours that do not exist yet
I feel daytime and spring
And panic and lovely
Amongst other intangible things
And what do I do
Now that I’m twisted
Rearrange myself
I could chop off my hands
With a circular saw
Stick eyeballs on my wrist stumps
Shove a trumpet down my oesophagus
Hop some ears on top of my knees
Stuff my tongue where it is tasteless
And cause my testicles to sneeze

Or distance myself
I could touch nothing at all
Curl myself into a ball
Inside a swaddle of cotton wool
Deprive myself in a tank
Like the altered state of
Willy Hurt
And then
I guess
It won’t
Be senseless

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