Impotence
A performance of Envy with the help of AP Murphy
May 14, 2026 · 20 min read
I need to take a break,
The black page
Is staring back at me now.
Oh look, a new piece by A.P Murphy.
A treat. For me?
Why, yes please…
Sassafras and Flatrabbit
https://www.wrizzit.com/post/sassafras-and-flatrabbit
a hobo gothic short story!
It’s like they knew
The trapdoor to my heart.
…
“And that’s when she drifted into my personal hobo jungle.”
What a wonderful hook.
Evocative of campfires,
free spirits,
dangerous liberty.
Soft landing for weirdos and downtrodden souls
choked out by society.
Hold on—
I need a snack,
something to help me savor the moment.
…
“That’s perhaps why he called himself “Poor Rich” with a sly ironic grin and a little phlegmy cough. He’d been overseas as a footslogger in the infantry and had caught some shrapnel in his inner ear and his left knee that sang to him in unison on days with thunder in them.”
Look how they lay an entire life,
in just a few lines.
Footslogger in the infantry…
What is that?
Who knows, but it fits.
Somehow.
That confidence…
Where does it come from.
Why don’t I have it?
Shrapnel singing in stereo,
an antagonistic opera,
awarded to a lucky bastard.
How?
These choices you make,
the words you choose!
Why do they speak to me,
better than my own.
What do you do,
that I can’t?
Why can’t—
…
“But this tale really isn’t about me. Oh Professor, you old dodderer, you bloviatin’ dotard! Try to stay focussed on the task at hand, keep on message…”
Lies,
It is about you…
“Professor”.
Bloviating dotard with a direct connection
to the vein from which I thirst.
I ask, and you refuse.
Tell me your secret,
only then can I fully express myself.
…
“Only us outcasts in our hobo jungle would remain now, immortal in our blood and thirst, along with the wolves and the coyotes and the small stray dogs who had run away from railyard guards looking to crush their small skulls beneath the wheels of wanton vehicles.”
There is no us.
You don’t care about your gift
do you?
Free flowing
telegrams
aimed for destruction
like quiet lashings
From your own father.
If I were you,
I could do better.
I would honor it.
To think,
you inspired this “poem”
too.
A “master”
even in absentia.
Useless