Anthony C Murphy

Biography

I live and work in Brighton, U.K, where I read regularly. I am an original member of Everybody's Got To Be Somewhere, which is a monthly spoken word event in the city on Sunday afternoons - or brunch for the eyes and ears of unsatisfied Saturday nighters. I perform at the experimental sound event, Club Silencio, throughout the year. I am also a contributing poet to MadSwirl, an online, Beat influenced, creative outlet based in Dallas. You can link on to them through my blogspot.

Samples

JIMMY’S CLIFF The sea is no less inviting today Seen here from this blue and terrible height It is mobile with white flicks or silver In flight; flecks of never, undetermined To wish for the depths seems ridiculous But dizziness affects more than the feet A fool’s dancing head on a beach full of Clouds out of reach is forever ending ------------------------------------------------------- FALL Your cold voice calls at six in the morning Through the gap I had left for night’s stale breath Before sun or gulls’ elemental yawn You drunkenly whisper of death And take me with you each rotten harvest Bury us deep, slow the blood in our chests So sleep til spring leans its leaves to the air Green in our dreams less of care -------------------------------------------------------- HOW SPELT IS WEAT 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 And stick eyeballs on my wrist stumps Shove a trumpet down my oesophagus Hop some ears on top 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 Or deprive myself in a tank Like the altered state of William Hurt Then that I guess Would be senseless

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.