Sunday, February 11, 2007

SALAMANDER BATTLEFIELD

When I woke up this morning, there were about eleven salamanders in my
moustache. They all were pulling at the hairs, pulling and squeezing and
hurting my upperlip.

Their leader spoke to me and told me things about the reality of champagne.

"You know, of course, of course, that sparkling wine and champagne are
different yes?"

I tried to respond, but the other salamandri restrained my tongue.

"Perrier is to tap water as is Freixenet to Champagne, yes? It exists, yes?
But only to worsen your pallette. To milk your extremeties."

I managed to mumble...
"It feels like your little friends are milking my extremities as we speak."

"But to milk, says I, is to remove from, and your whiskers are attached in
full, now speaknot, jew." he shouted unexpectedly. "My need for your dairy
is merely informational, as I am not more than a courier and I cannot
deliver that which is not in my possession. Can we agree?"

Salamanders 2-10 nodded my head.

"What i care for is the true meaning of your written word, your
extrapolations upon banalities, the irreverences and enigmatic
nothingeries."

HAD NOT MY WHISKERS BEEN HELD FIRM, FIRM, I'D HAVE MOUTHFUCKED HIM
THEN/THERE.

"Your rhyme, your rhythym. Your overuse of "y's." he incomprehensed.
"Cavemen drew on walls the things that chased and hunted, and that were by
them the aforementioned, and yet, you speak of God and chalice and creatures
of lore, and metaphor and simile and on and on you preamble to a point
hardly worth making"

"" I said.

He continueth..."And yet, I wonder if this gives you your sauce, your fiery
temperature and adaptability, your inextinguishable descriptors of
happenstance."

And I shut my mouth. And I filled my head with thoughts of nothingness. Of
pretty descriptions of things of neither horror nor beauty, of neither, of
neither, and I bathed in my head in the sauce of my strength. I cleansed my
body with my own light. My ever-present sun, my star of futility. And I
thought "fuck him."

And the salamander 2-10 sensed my being.
And they let go of my whiskers.

Commander said "What be this, infants? INFANTILE INFANTRY! What means this?"

And I stared into his eyes and proclaimed/exclaimed/unrestrained/said...

"You desire my sauce, my virus?"
He shook his squirrelface.

"Well, you're just going to have to go the fuck in and get it."

That's it. I'm done.

by P.H. murphy


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5 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

this is incredibly original and unique. i reall, really like it.

4:04 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Yes. Very unique. And it's also very well written. Keep up the good writing!

1:21 AM  
Anonymous A.Edward said...

I love your voice. You get sucked right into the moment. Very cool.

10:46 PM  
Anonymous bukakke dreams said...

Absolutefucking awsome. This author's voice is strong, unique and twisted.

9:26 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

this work is endless fly. people don't call this poetry usually, but it's more what i'm looking for in short bursts of perfected vision than stanza break stanza etc.

i have rippling morphine-addled goosebumps

1:35 AM  

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