“Figment of Silence”; “Perpignan”; and “Psilocybin” by Tim Murphy

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  
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.  



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. 



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).  

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