Sheila Murphy



Maybe you wonít feel you can Denise me anymore. This coffin rendezvous means I am in my own right a progenitor. Watch the sitcom flowers preeningly lavosh their way into my thin canary heart. These strings, all twelve, give grace. Receive our payer. Clamly, woolish, slight. Predictive hemispheres greet white chairs with observatory singalongs. With just the right panache one glitters, then one slinks. One dives, one charms oneís round, soft minuet into the custom viewing of some others. Fact rotunds away from lorikeet and semicolon. In the dimly-fashioned street, the favorable badinage gives way to glory rounds and sturdy loud commingling every bit as Dutch treat as the wit of sphere. Indulgence mounts and tadpoles mince their territorial crooned roundelay in just the right embellishment. Intolerant old crevices attract informal poison. Where are lamps when just the daisies start to show. Is it my creed or my imagination guiding how a situation filters through each lens.

Remainder, 12-day juice fast, aftermath of spun tone


Extravagant Motels

It is my job to have completed many panes of timing. Then what surfaces deranges portals left to braise in summerís headrest. Peak my intercession slowly as dreamed breezes. Extravagant motets convene where we can sense their freshness. Camisole braids evenly then levels of fatigue invent the fray. Tumultuous forehand interjects what you were thinking when you learned me. Now what is at stake is several aware levels of paint test. Drive the boat through tunnels that remain as hot as insolence after itís been yarned away on threadbare ice. If anyone located anywhere helps dither away morning, it will be a gallant morning evermore. The slowest route to fraught will seem an endless trail. Albeit low and strained, the sentences will have considered leaning into avenues and being walked, becoming part of the allegiant pavement. Now and then the Rotterdam of our ignominy retorts, and we are forecast to be constant. Are the tried and fluent moods enough to crate us toward the homemade altar of significance? More of the apparel waives its rights. More of our rights are laced with crops left in the field. More of the fields seem to be relentless pastures where trim considerations might have grown eventually wizened.

Cortisone, athletic prowess, singular or deck chair-level metamorphosis


She Is Busy Being Important

She is busy being important and conveying to me how very important she is. I am listening at my leisure to her chant, delivered in a most insistent way beside the thread birds making a community. She has a story, and the story is a brave one, a broad one, climate-controlled. I have heard the story many times. It is about the safest stone tossed into unsafe water. I have never said these words myself. She repeats their moral, seems to like re-telling the full sequence of events, almost as though a certain telling might connote an anniversary. I am listening to the versions of her magnitude. It seems clear she needs to live inside the frame sheís built around her face. The lasting image has already stained proceedings. Witness the remainder of the calisthenics being played out at an angle, feigning the contagion of so many irritants that self-replay.