Ars

Scott Murphy

Whosoever is that loves this world so well
that he would give his first born's life for it,
must first have studied long on war, then hell.

Having consumed his last desire but one,
and blowing on the dimming coal of that,
he imagined loins, and spat a son.

Was he greased with the fright and sweat of Abraham,
knife to Isaac's throat by the mindless fire?

Cut.

I had the ineffable pressed down by the shoulders
and I was effing it in the long grass
and the ineffable was liking it.
I think it was, though it's been pointed out
that the sound of ecstasy in an adjoining room
cannot be told apart from torture but
that sometimes you can hear the bedstead knock
against the wall.

Cut.

Friend, I am only a poem, and invisible
except for my shadow; a strange happy kernel
in a longing. I did not know what I thought
until I crept near you and began to learn
the words. I came knowing "frottage."
You taught me "frisson."

Scott Murphy