Figment of Silence A biomorphic abstraction frames an application that keeps repeating itself. The environment is limited. Dense. A server programs a closed source. The presence of gaps in the platform seems authentic, reassuring. All at once six sides of mortar lodge in the cornerstone’s memory, dowelled mallets chisel in rotation around a French drag straightedge, ashlar trowels point the way to the tuck rubble — it’s an obscene carving frenzy, like a kaleidoscope whisper among cathedral shadows. A monitor network scans a binary icon. Lakes of data disappear into a collapsed update. The platform wobbles, it reboots a blank page. A kernel link hides inside the nearest firewall. * Perpignan Transient ghosts cope with the paradox of knowing how to handle flaws by killing off costive thinking with a merciful sensation streak and reminding themselves of Perpignan, its walls and waiting rooms, its bookish baptisms, its slowly exploding border . . . The fears of things were still unconscious then, all of life was a bright trance. But now Perpignan has had its say. Death is delayed. The hoofbeats of raw material issue invitations like eyes. * Psilocybin A silken clay courage casts a net from the house of fear. The guild stops to sigh but the village does not waver. From afar a voice is heard: “Let all the humiliations be desecrated.” Flea market élan takes its chance: secrets are saved from a fever ravine. In the mirror an El Greco face is pulled — it feels like Ecstatic Surrender.
Tim Murphy was born in Cork and lives in Madrid. His chapbooks include The Cacti Do Not Move (SurVision Books, 2019) and There Are Twelve Sides to Every Circle (If a Leaf Falls Press, 2021).
Beir Bua Press 