m/ryan murphy

Horse Blood

However determinate one’s genetic inheritance, it must still, as it were, be woven into the present, an activity that necessarily involves both receptivity to the specific shapes and textures of that present and a spontaneous creativity in adjusting oneself (and one’s inheritance) to those contours…that we speak of by the term “perception”.
-David Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous

The abject is an end of one kind of organism,                     meaning

we are birthed into the rhythm of                            human

until shocked into the pace of a flayed antelope     seeking safety.

How this run from community      undoes         all dialectics.

Art loses value.           Only speaks toward         commodity.

We call this the near future               or a parallel now.

A human                       on all fours

or injected                      with horse

blood.                      A beating heart           beaten

backward taking           vitality soaking          the sun

red or                               ridding                       we.

Personages                    swell into         disarticulation.

The shape of stratum then rounds into

an engorged                           timeline  ;

it’s gritty with bits of                  fossil too

much death to contain it all.             We

say take time to grieve                         to find

a creativity that erupts out from         nothingness.

We suppose a nothingness    always         we say

sight will lead us without worry             no

touch to lead us through             “those     contours”.

We call this growth        really           booming

out from the inherited                   forcing

everything into                    something     ,

but what of                         entropy    ?

Grossing your         self out            enough

to shock the system         into change.

An antelope        with thread and needle

cannot suture                itself–       withers.

Upending the Illusion of One

Borrowed Catharsis

The ground rips open &
I know this isn’t cosmopolitan
but it feels productive.

At dusk, I grow
as vibrations charge
& settle in my feet,

reaching roots
infused with
total chaos.

I shiver, then
the chasm

Dirt falls
inward like
a fragment.

I borrow a neighbor’s
catharsis, craft a ball
of it-gets-better

suck it dry
hand it back.
It’s how I know

I’m alive.
I’m hungry &
my arms stay put

like wet tree leaves,
I glow briefly but
been boundless

too often unaware
of the heaviness
peace harbors.

I dim.
The sun’s down &
fog leaves me

all milky
slick &

A corpse
A this-work-needs-grounding
A finger flinging dirt

Or my father’s
arms in water,
around me –

The quotidian is gross
like that. A sentence
working in tandem.

A winter cloud is grey
never pink
nor white.

Perfect strangers lay
against grass against
me in this thicket saying:

when you say, oh no division
you say, oh no division
say, oh no division

oh no division
no division

& if the voice
no longer heals you,
cradle the body.

m/ryan murphy lives in Brooklyn, NY via Mississippi. They were named a finalist for The Poetry Project’s 2018-19 Emerge–Surface–Be Fellowship. Some of their work exists in or is forthcoming from Entropy, The Felt, The Poetry Project Newsletter, Cosmonauts Avenue, and Bone Bouquet. The rest explores nonhuman rights, caesurae, queerness, and language’s existence beyond the confines of the page. Virtually friend them @mryanmurphy.