Three poems by Sheila E. Murphy

The Ping of Code Words

Ungentle campaign speech exhaled into the bulbous head of microphone. Why so thin a crowd? Anxiety about the look of weeds beside the stands. Refraction of adulthood by way of repetition. Speech planed across the surface to convey an imprimatur. The fossil has nodded. Obsequious barbs conveyed the requisite nodding. Inelastic prodding of a notion made to seem belief.

Crushed cellophane, a holding pattern, ephemeral white speech.


Uninterrupted Screen Time

Which is heaven: a bespoke bot assigned to curb your enthusiasm or uncensored free play leading to incessant fixation on the lingua franca of hypotheses? Snap out of it! The proxy doll dovetails with the delicately fresh face you winnowed from the culture as you framed it: peachy little mood of resuscitated inference, let’s say. Who needs authority by a self-appointed clown with cobbled cred? How is leisure different from lesions and ingrained poverty of heart?


His Each Morning

He likes the agitation to come
From him he thinks up lateral moves
That move the lemmings (they’re all
Lemmings) in and out of danger
Nonsense and various he voyages
Through villages and major megalopolises
Splintering a previously orderly seen
Locus into willed chaos what does his each
Morning seem what does it bring except
Repeated playground images in which
His lack of popularity would show
So brazenly he needed to smother
That first truth with all kinds of new




Sheila E. Murphy
Picture  Rupert Loydell




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