On The Sabbath…She Gave Me A Cold Murphy:

In the autumn chill I stand below the yellow leaves wrapped in my great-grandfather’s wool pullover holding the hand of Lynnie…the harvest of a teenager’s brief existence.
She says “It’s beautiful!”
We were searching for mushrooms.
Amanita muscaria.
The teenager in me led me to hunt for these red/orange mushrooms with white spots upon them…where elves sit in childhood storybooks.
We found the mother lode in the fields of our young lives.
Harvesting a cloth bag full to return to our suburban jails.
And from there Lynnie gave me a cold Murphy while we lay upon my old bed.
I had never had a cold Murphjy before…though I was at that time 17.
Listening to Dylan on the record player my brother got for me from his wealthy friend who smoked Moroccan cigarettes and wore a stove pipe hat.
And we lay together listening to music and hallucinating visions of the great autumn sky.

Thrusting our bodies against each other’s cloth wrapped about the excitement of young flesh.
Our hands down the other’s pants.
Touching, stroking and massaging…
This was the closest we came to the fresh wet flesh in the limited moment of unexplored love making.
Lynnie was good at stroking my butt.
I was 17 and had never had my butt stroked.
God she was good!

Yeah!
Oh yeah!
It was right here that she gave me a…cold Murphy!
Oh my God!
Every electrical circuit in my body lit up!
I mean the sirens sang and the police station blew up.
Totally!
Or maybe that was with Laurie.
It doesn’t matter.
They were good friends and close to each other.
Yes it was true.
Like a blueprint unrolled before the eyes of a young fella.
Like we lay upon my bed and dared the drunken gods of passion!
It was a close call to the fruits of labor.
The smoke drifting from my house from upstairs where the two teenage virgins would sit up so Lynnie could smoke a cigarette.
And prepare herself on that autumn night for the energies of a cold Murphy.
That is we ate those mushrooms and waited for the hallucinations to come.
We lay there looking over at the record player.
She held a plastic crucifix over my cock while she chanted something from the attic papers of her great-great-grandmother’s archives.
She was the old lady from the village dressed in old rags who healed the sick and raised the dead and was burnt at the stake for giving a cold Murphy to heal lovers in the marsh amongst the cat-tails surrounded in the flames of her unedited passion.
She collected amanita muscaria in the forest beneath the yellow canopy of autumn.
She would let them dry in the sunlight and carry them in a leather belt pouch.
And she chose her victims in the years from the 1600’s.
The nimble hands of the tailor.
The strong muscles of the blacksmith.
The tanned if not burnt young harvesters.
Waiting at the town well.
Watching the village population upon horse or feet.
She would select her victims to ingest the amanita mushrooms.
In her straw bed before the stone window.
She reveals her breasts and hugs them to her flesh.
Rolling in the grasses.
While she pulled down their trousers.,
After having served them a bowl of selected mushrooms.
Thus she made them more comfortable by the fiery hearth in her stone cottage.
And playing a violin while looking into the flames she would seduce them into the fantasy world and when it took place she applied her medicines and made love to them in this dreamland of the intensities of a C-o-l-d M-u-r-p-h-y.
She was burnt at the stake.

The peasants and such as the sleep filled shepherd who lies beneath the willow surrounded by the Sunday light of an illiterate lamb grazing in the fresh green foliated remains of the Sunday morning changing colors in the deaf ears of sweet memories form the afternoon of the Cold Murphy at 20 degrees latitude and 6 degrees longitude.
So, as you might assume, most went insane.
One such subject found his lot in his brand new quiet life and became a street sweeper for all of the eternal avenues.
Others stay in their gowns staring out the sunlit windows of the asylum oblivious to the delivery of the dinner trays.
And I…?
I stand beneath the autumn yellow leaves after having eaten those mushrooms and I stand silently listening to the wind.
Voices from the molten days of those teenage years emerging through those slow years of realignment.
Making space for future flames where the geese swim quietly through the polluted uncertain sewer of my heavily weighed water soaked bandages where I stand upon the drugstore stoop in this sunlit afternoon from the particulate spilled blood from my heavily bandaged heart in 4 point leather restraints where the janitor whistles a gentle tune while leaning on a mop handle remembering Noah and the rainbow.
The promise from God.

So I stand in the almost obsolete phone booth fumbling with a few sunlit coins.
Alone.
A handful of poems encoded in phone numbers set afire and crammed up my ass thus completing the process of copyright laws.
Now no one can breach my unpopular yet fashionable straight jacket covered with handwritten poetry scribbled carefully by an unemployed prophet suffering from insomnia where I sit looking out the window with he who speaks the words of our Lord.
Now surrounded with bleeding patients begging to be carefully stitiched so completely that no one will ever recognize them again!
No one!
Not the grocer.
And not by the slow prostitute who still believes in the Messiah.
Not the neighborhood beat cop who has locked his wrist in handcuffs.
Not the mailman with his frozen fingers and a good pension.
And not me while I wait so patiently for the ever popular, never violated patent laws leaving me wasted from the waist down in the morning sunrise in the blonde fields of Northern California.
And it is I who have been violated by the old lady in rags who gave me a cold Murphy.
Something to remember as my heavy breathing has changed to complete and all natural relief.

Peter Leon

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2 thoughts on “On The Sabbath…She Gave Me A Cold Murphy:

  1. Kathy says:

    Love this poem. Your poetry is good and nourishing as always.

  2. ke says:

    Excuse my naivete but what’s a Cold Murphy? Is it like a Dirty Sanchez?

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