Copyright © 2005 by Conor Murphy. All rights reserved.
AFTER THE SMOKE SERMON
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
We gather ’round the fire now,
Interred within the shadows.
Latching on to the withered sow —
The shadows like headstone rows.
. . . In utterance of a general moan . . .
Not knowing that the rhetoric flows
Against the current of our mouths,
Across our inward pointed toes.
Closet collectivism our sacred cow.
I stare into the flames that lie
Just beyond the tree line there,
Cutting loose from a whispered sigh;
Seeing through the smoke filled air
Each shadow like a purple headstone,
Not hoping to penetrate the blank stare
Of that oh-so-unique socialite,
Who’s so elegant
Dancing the dance of death with flair.
I’ll dance it alone — an individualite.
INUNDATION OF A RAT
Yet, yet, thou hast an amiable soul,
If sin by custom grow not into nature.
Well I, I sold my soul to God,
Though solely did I brink, bitch, and buy back —
As a prisoner, his privilege to retract,
Will flail, flog, and fink — a silly, flawed
Instrument of — now do not think it odd —
Monument to commemorate the lack
Of clown, hangman, and judge, all three in black.
Excuse the first, he only in motley.
Second — Do you hear him? — He said: “A scarf.”
“A scarf?” quotes the third, “For whom to strangle?”
Insipid inner-city lights can carve
A balcony from which — Look! — the angel
Places a triumvirate in his absence,
Plowing an abysmal reticence.