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Wir wollten nur by Paige Murphy

Photo by Walter Lee Olivares de la Cruz

Wir wollten nur.

Aspiration: wooden floorboards / lack of wooden floorboards

are the gallows. I suck the breast of a better woman and form

a figure eight, borne into the sofa. The life of objects:

effete tongue hung coyly, out mouths on soporific meat.

The life of the land of objects: it’s low mists, it’s high mounds.

Like my personal love of a wanting, beyond the bounds of immiseration.

The richest price: to pay in the matter of principle not

being one’s exclusive domain. Making a little protest,

making a statement. You are living in a country

with latent tendencies, lines of force-fulness, milks that muddle,

and curdle on sight. You are living in a country, it is not land.

Exchange enchantment for sobbing rage repudiate the body’s score,

half truth / half necessity. No chance for religiosity: the quiet life

of small windows, meditative folds, bunch and gather skirts.

The life of - blood drains out, caverns us in enormous lack,

of minutes and pence immensable debt...in the pit of the stomach,

torn soles, low sunlight. Won’t a garden, or fruit so English

ever exist.

Paige Murphy is a poet, abolitionist and hysteric living in London.

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