Thursday, December 04, 2014

The arcane autobiography of Nestor Bogoff: Chapters 1 to 8

 The arcane autobiography of Nestor Bogoff: Chapters 1 to 8

CHEAP Art work by p.murry in the  BAR Gallery Art Fair.

12 December  8 January


Private View & Queens Parade Xmas Launch: 12th Dec 

6pm-10pm

Opening Hours: 12pm-6pm Tuesday-Friday,  2-6pm Saturdays


BAR  Unit 4-5, Queens Parade, Walm Lane, London, NW2 5HT

Monday, December 01, 2014

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GARGLING OPPOSUM



AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GARGLING OPPOSUM
&
A Pustular Combustion
&
A Tripod Of Galactic Witches

with
The Indefinite Viewers Of Artichokes

aRTworks by p.murry in the
FPS OPEN 2014
Private View

TUESDAY 2ND DECEMBER - 6-9PM

51 Southwark Street
London SE1 1RU

OPEN DAILY 1ST - 13TH DECEMBER


for details


Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Humble Origins: An Exhibition of Art on Paper

Humble Origins: An Exhibition of Art on Paper
Thursday 30th October 2014 - Thursday 27th November 2014
12pm-6pm

PRIVATE VIEW Thursday 30th October 6pm-9pm

At BAR Gallery
4-5 Queens Parade, Walm Lane NW2 5HT


Exhibiting art that uses paper as its medium. Humble Origins looks at the diverse ways with which paper is still widely used for art. Despite the rise of digital and the move towards technologies in our everyday lives paper is still a fertile and cherished medium for artistic practice.

Expect to see a broad range of artwork including sculpture, drawing, installation, collage, pen & ink on paper, prints and more! All work is for sale and is affordably priced.
INCLUDING WORKS BY P.MURRY
a tripod of galactic witches
24(h)*28(w)
Mixed media
125
autobiography of a gargling opposum
38(h)*27(w)
collage
200


Tuesday, October 07, 2014

P MURRY seems to be having a sudden solo art show

P.MURRY ARTWORK at FOOD FOR THOUGHT October2014
Contact 07736525187/ email:  yrrumuk@googlemail.com/ http://quadraoptica.blogspot.co.uk/


P MURRY seems to be having a sudden solo art show ( thanks to Brent Artists' Resource), from now until the end of October at the FOOD FOR THOUGHT café which incudes

The eccentric ideas of an artichoke
Mixed media
£75
The sixth obsessional stance of Lionel Prism
Mixed media
£75
Unfossilised artichokes emit odes
Mixed media
£75
A renewed wave of opposition to artichokes
Mixed media
£75
The unknown redemption of Lionel Prism’s artichoke
£75
You never promised me an artichoke garden, why not?
£75
Always an artichoke but never an architrave or an archmandrite
£75
Artichoke, the skinwalker
£75
 EAT, C.ART F.ART
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
·       15 High Road
London NW10 2TE
Willesden
·       Get Directions
·       Transit informationJubileeWillesden Green More info
·       Phone number020 8451 5350
·       Business websitefood4thoughtlondon.co.uk


Monday, August 04, 2014

brotherblob and sister slob

brotherblob and sister slob 

artworks by prmurry are in the BAR 30th Birthday Exhibition 9-30 august 2014
Preview Party: 9 august 2014 6-10pm Free Entry BAR Gallery / 4-5 Queens Parade, Walm Lane, NW2 5HT  www.brentartistsresource.org.uk





Sunday, August 03, 2014

a waste of time

I waste my time
Watching timers,
All the time.
If I’m not clock watching,
I’m waiting for a digit to change
Thinking that I wish that the 9
On the indicator
Would just light up one more line
So that I could now see
The number 8
And appreciate
The whittling away
Of my railway station wait.
So than I can be soon back home
Watching a lighted bar
Move across my computer screen,
Almost imperceptibly slowly
As I do, more seemingly endless
Down and uploading.
And moving folders and files around
And if I’m not gazing at some timer flickering,
I’m faffing around
Or laying dozing listening to
The time pips on the radio
That go, meep, meep, meep, meep
Like a niggling itch,
Which won’t let me go back to sleep again
I think that I must get going
I know that I must get moving
So that can always be punctual
Keeping up with the time
Is the futile aim of my meaningless ritual,
Which means that I never get
Introverted or metaphysical
And wonder  why this old bald ape
Works himself up into such a state,
When, sooner or later,
He won’t have the time to wait and watch
The digits of the timer or the hands of the clock
Which may well continue

When his time has stopped.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

DODO MODERN POETS: Saturday 2 August 2014 7.30pm

dodo


DODO MODERN POETS

25TH ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION
Dodo Modern Poets has been presenting top-flight poetry throughout the UK and Ireland for 25 years. Join us as we celebrate our anniversary with an extravaganza of poetic and musical magic at Abbeyfest.

PROJECT ADORNO
Electro-pop duo Project Adorno present songs & poems from their new Edinburgh Fringe show ´Jarman in Pieces'´

SUE JOHNS
Cornish roots meet urban reality

ARDELLA JONES
Wickedly stylish diva of Colliers Wood

P.R. MURRY
Sharp-witted North-London satirist

FRANCES WHITE
Soulful verse from gifted poet

PATRIC CUNNANE
Poetry and passion from Dodo founder

Saturday 2 August 2014 7.30pm
Colour House Theatre, Watermill way, Merton, SW19 2RD
£ 9 /8 concessions BOX OFFICE: 01303 243868


MORE DODOS IN 2014
19 September 2014
17 October 2014
12 December 2014
POETS TBA


Saturday, June 28, 2014

midsummer bus ride

There is nowhere to sit down on
This red London double decker bus
At 7.30 on a Saturday morning.
Seventy wage slaves are already sitting
And twenty more are standing
Between them they probably speak and understand
Thirty languages or more
But nobody says a word.
They all have long journeys behind them
And long journeys before them
Sucked into central London everyday
Like stars into a black hole
Or soap suds into a plughole,
To wait at tables,
To prepare food,
To fill shelves,
To mop dirty floors.
Now many are still half asleep or more
And some, waking up, might wonder
As dreams dissipate
Why am I selling my life
Second by second
For a shit wage?
But the bus rolls on

And, even at 7.35 am,
it's too late.

Monday, June 16, 2014

THE JOYS OF OFFICE EQUIPMENT

FILING CABINET

I am a filing cabinet,
I have four drawers
And I am not an ocelot
So I do not have padded paws
Or sharp, sharp claws
Or a beautiful spotted coat
So I don’t
Go out hunting across jungle floors
I just sit here
Rectangular and metallic,
Storing, storing, storing
It might seem boring to you
But it’s all I do, because
I am a filing cabinet,

HOLE PUNCH
If I was a hole punch,
I’d never be out to lunch
I’d be so legless that
I couldn’t go to the cafÄ—
All I’d eat is little paper circles,
No paninni, no salad, no baguettes
No cappucinno, no lattÄ— for me,
Not even a short shot of espresso
Unless some silly office worker,
Spills it on me.
So I’d be underfed and caffeine free
And I’d subsist 
Very quietly,
On little paper circles,
Only making a creaking sound,
When I got pressed down
Otherwise,
I’d just sit there.

STAPLER
I am a capable stapler
Very capable and cabapler than
A pin or a paper clip
Of fixing sheets of paper together
Not forever
But for just long enough
Because that is what

I am capable of.

Tuesday, June 03, 2014

If I was a shredder

If I was a shredder
Life would be better
I wouldn’t have to worry
About my diet
I’d just eat paper
And I’d just shit paper
And I wouldn’t have be
Very quiet
I’d just go NYAZZZZ
Every time I ate and shit paper
If I was a shredder
Life would be better
‘Cause NYAZZZZ

Is all I’d have to say.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

agit prop may 2014

 Mr Farage, forenamed Nigel,
 Has a tongue that is seldom idle,
 He peddles hate and fear,
 And prejudiced ideas,
 Like a slug that leaves slime behind it.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

play exhibition at BAR gallery



P.murry has 2 sculptures and 1 painting in this show.

Thursday, May 08, 2014

Monday, April 14, 2014

POETRY LIBRARY: Dodo Modern Poets Date: Wednesday 7 May, 2014


dodo


polib

POETRY LIBRARY: Dodo Modern Poets

Date: Wednesday 7 May, 2014
Time: 8:00 PM
Price: Free (but booking required)
Address: Saison Poetry Library, Southbank Centre, Belvedere Road, London SE1 8XX

Dodo Modern Poets celebrates its 25th anniversary in 2014. It was founded to bring new and established poets to as wide an audience as possible, and hosts regular evenings in Covent Garden and Merton. Join Dodo founder Patric Cunnane together with regular performers Sue Johns, P.R. Murry, and Jasmine Ann Cooray.

Admission Free but space is limited. To book a place emailspecialedition@poetrylibrary.org.uk

MORE DODOS IN 2014
16 May 2014
20 June 2014
19 September 2014
17 October 2014
12 December 2014
POETS TBA

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

The harrowing hustings,

I’m going to the hustings,
And I’m busting to be thrusting
My party’s ideas
Into your ear.

I will praise the perfection,
That will immediately be detected,
When this shower
Comes to power
And problems will melt away
Like icebergs or glaciers,
If this lot get elected
To the local council here.

In a school or in a church hall,
With three or four other hopefuls,
Who will each stand and say
In our own charming ways
That the other two or three
Embody incompetency
And delusion and confusion,
And are, in fact,  bags full
Of pure political pus,

Unlike us,
Because we are, you see
Bold, brave, clear sighted and free
And how good it will all be
If you just elected us.


We’ll take questions
And pretend to listen attentively,
as through gritted teeth,
We grin.
At the foolish, fools and bigots,
Who might just be
Voting for us.

And after the hustings are over
And when we’ve consumed the tea
Or the other hospitality,
And the biscuits are all crumbs,
We’ll go back to being humans
And cease from selling snake oil
From a platform in a church hall,
And stand in a queue in the drizzle

Waiting for a bus.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Nose cream

Have I told you lately that you’re
Nose cream?

Your emollience
Stops my nasal itching

And your unctuousness
Stops my nostrils twitching.

I’m a happy, happy chap,
When I unscrew your cap
And stick your nozzle,
Up my nosehole.

You lubri…,
You lubri…,

You lubricate my nose.

Saturday, February 08, 2014

aqeouscoatimundi & demonz

     aqeouscoatimundi & demonz 
     2 paintings by P.Murry will be in the brent artists resource show: 



'Encounters'Journeys & discoveries
at BAR Gallery, Unit 4- 5, Queens Parade, Willesden, London NW2 5HT

     21st Feb-20th March
Private View 20th Feb 6pm-10pm 

Wednesday, February 05, 2014

Oliver's many pockets

Oliver de Farr had so many pockets that he sometimes wondered if he might be a mutant marsupial. He had pockets in his trousers and also in shorts that he wore as underpants, from time to time. He had pockets in his jacket and his coat and many, many, many pockets in the photographer’s or fisherman’s waistcoat that he habitually wore under his jacket. He often also had one or two breast pockets in the shirt or t-shirt that he wore next to his skin.  He had no pockets in his skin and was of the male gender; nonetheless  had he, one day, reached into one or other of the pouches that he had about him wouldn’t have been surprised to extract an infant wallaby, an immature opossum or a baby bandicoot.

God knew that the things in Oliver’s pockets were weird enough without that.

Oliver’s plethora of clothing niches meant that he could always have everything somewhere about him, but also that he was never really ever sure where somewhere was. He was vaguely, but not strictly systematic about his carrying capacity. For instance he usually kept his phone in a breast pocket, but, not always the same one; it could be left or right, shirt, jacket or gilet. This meant that when the phone sounded an electronic ringtone, (a high-pitched fartlike sound, similar, Oliver imagined, to that which a marsupial kit might emit), Oliver never found the phone before the caller rang off.

Sometimes, of course, this was a blessing, but, more often than not, it just had the consequence of slightly swelling phone companies’ coffers. And the phone wasn’t the only problem.
Oliver sometimes missed buses and/or trains because he couldn’t find which pocket his travel card was in.

Pens lurked in depths unfound when wanted, and then reappeared, after they had bled and leaked ink, staining the clothing around them and the fingers that retrieved them. Coupons offering money off this or that item of grocery were never redeemed, having become as rare as the genetic material of the Sasquatch until, emerging immediately after their sell-by dates. Cameras vanished until the photo-op had gone, tangerines began to rot in dark cloth surrounded recesses where lint, panel pins and wooden coffee stirrers entangled themselves intricately with snapped elastic bands. Erasers slept in the darkest corners with treasury tags and co-habited with empty plastic ink cartridges and stubs of pencils.

Sharper objects seemed to band together in Colditz like escape committees to widen tiny tears in pocket fabric and then tunnel out into garment linings. Once here, these fugitive implements could torment Oliver even more than when they had simply stayed in pockets, because he could feel their outlines through the cloth and could sense their weight; so he knew that they were there somewhere, but he could not find them when he needed or wanted them. If he was going to sign a cheque or some other such document; or if he needed scissors for a minor manicure job, or a blade to slit open an envelope; Oliver reached into pockets and always grasped the wrong implement.

As he was a baptised Christian he might get up to the pearly gates and grope unsuccessfully around for whatever transcendent sim-card could grant admittance to heaven, so Saint Peter would not be able to scan the tally of his sins and condemn Oliver to “GO DOWN!”.


Or in another scenario beyond the bifurcations of the Book, he would not even achieve reincarnation as a silverfish living under a pile of damp smelly socks in Neasden flat. He would have to hang around in limbo forever and commuters in bus queues might just discern his shadowy ghost futilely riffling through its phantom pockets.

Monday, February 03, 2014

early morning shit poem

Whoosh!
Excellent!
My crap’s gone down the pan
And I get up from my morning shit;
Refreshed,
I am a new man.

I get up from my morning shit;
And start to dream again
What if it wasn’t just
What I ate last night
That got flushed down the drain.

I dream that I could flush the bog
And it would take away
Those who rape this planet
For their profit everyday.

If only it was as easy
As pulling a lavatory chain
Then capitalists and their sycophants

Would never be seen again.

Thursday, January 09, 2014

New year’s morning 2014 in Mitcham (south London)

The writing, on the carton,
At the breakfast table,
Tells me that,
The liquid contained therein
Comes from fruit,
That has been grown
In sun drenched groves.

The wind’s howling changes pitch,
And I look out of the window
At a grove that is just drenched,
And only drenched,
And drenched again,
As another Atlantic gale blows in;
But I thank god or fate,
That I wasn’t born
A century ago,
Because I could have been
Getting well drenched in a trench.