Exterminating Angel Press

Creative Solutions for Practical Idealists.

Sean Murphy.

Pol Pot’s Purgatory.

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by Sean Murphy.

 

On April 15, 1998, under house arrest, Pol Pot dies in his sleep, apparently of natural causes.

 

You read that and think: there truly is no God,
no justice, no sense, no anything fair or good.

A remorseless murderer, passing in his sleep
and not hanging upside down, his internal organs
splashed in a red pool beneath him, the engine
of what made his sadistic engine run the last thing
he’d ever see? Not alone, shivering, in a darkened,
dank jail cell, or else on the public square, the sounds
of jeering survivors hastening his descent to Hell?

But let’s consider what often occurs when we’re not
awake: dreams, which don’t always accommodate
our private hopes and hungers; even the quietest mind
can’t quell the messy machinery of the mind’s biology,
and perhaps the most sanguine psychopath still broods,
knowing that power without peace and silence without
consent is an ersatz state of affairs, that being feared,
through intimidation, brings neither peace nor purpose.

And perhaps it’s only at night, alone and unprotected,
while in the grip of forces that control craven tyrants
and their puny designs, the balance is laid bare—
this is where an evil soul is imprisoned, powerless
to prevent or escape the cascading spiritual horrors
that exist only in the killing fields of the mind, forever.

South Loudon St., Sunday Afternoon.

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by Sean Murphy. Sights unseeable, or striving to be unseen, Sunday being the day of rest. Humans hidden or missing in inaction, dispersed like a bombed-out anthill, sucking on poison fumes and marinating in distress—followed by unconcern. A steady scent of sun-baked urine spiced up, at times, by freshly sparked spliffs, gang-greened grass drowning in […]

Sadness, Newness, and a Call for Submissions to a New Press.

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Let’s face it. It’s been a rough winter, both for the country and the world. Here in the Pacific Northwest, it’s as if Mother Nature is having a particularly stern tease with us, setting up each day as if it’s spring rather than an appropriately snowy winter. Wind and sun and rain, and more wind […]

Francis Coppola’s Apocalypse.

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by Sean Murphy. You want to make a living? Go into accounting. Want to be around lots of money? Work in a bank. (Want to have a bunch of money And not work especially hard?) Rob a bank. Want to make a living as an artist? Give the people what they want. Want to make […]

Summer 1980.

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by Sean Murphy. Who am I to speak of the dead or even dare to presume it’s my place to do so? Because I was there, aware —even at ten—this was something nobody would ever forget. An era when news was on the news, and word of mouth, always the best way to convey everything […]

Countervailing Forces.

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by Sean Murphy. An email, an angry thought, a meditation, a prayer; ill-will directed toward those who thrive on the perpetuated misery of those accommodating it. A severed friendship, letters to the editor, a withholding of affection, a refusal to smile mutely while the usual suspects recite talking points from pundits. Do you ponder that […]

Gen X Exegesis.

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by Sean Murphy. How else can our resilience be explained except by the video games we played— the early ‘80s offering us invaders from space on screen and nuclear apocalypse everywhere else (except when we were asleep, and that’s the lesson we learned, cable TV our textbook: death never rests), so even when you’re staying […]

Contraband.

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by Sean Murphy. One night just after counting my tips I stole an entire chocolate torte from the walk-in, absconding to the roof of the restaurant for a late-night snack. Predictably, I felt immediate regret: not only had I effectively robbed my place of employment, but worse, betrayed a friend. Kathy, in addition to being […]

On This Day in History, 4877 B.C.: Universe is created, according to Kepler.*

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by Sean Murphy. When it came to physics—to name only one subject, there was no saving me, long on imagination, lacking in discipline and so much else— it’s with some humility that I recall dispirited high school teachers serving up pearls before my swinish eyes, me preoccupied with anything other than savoring the ways knowledge […]

In the Unlikely Event of a Water Landing.

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by Sean Murphy. We’re going to discover some things. For starters: who was paying attention to the long-suffering flight attendant when she went through the motions of how to go through the motions of dying? We’ll see who screams first, who covers their eyes, and who gives two shits about the well-being of anyone but […]