Beauty depresses me,
knowing that it’s temporary.
Positivity requires too much energy.
And even if I were happy,
I wouldn’t admit it,
for that would be an insult
to those who are not,
and those who pretend to be.
Beauty and Happiness
Moments of Rare Delight
Delivering a profound spiritual message for humanity at…
Echoplex, 1154 Glendale Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90026
Saturday Jan 19th 8pm
w/ Flesh Eaters & Mud Honey
Furstworld, 8528 Desert Shadows Rd, Joshua Tree, CA 92252
Friday Jan 25th 7.30pm
Space Cowboy Books, 61871 29 Palms Hwy, Joshua Tree, CA 92252
Saturday Jan 26th 3-4.30pm
w/ Gabriel Hart

Chevalier’s Books, 126 N.Larchmont, Los Angeles CA 90004
Sunday Feb 3rd 5pm
w/ Janet Fitch

Is there Life after Art?
An Act of Great Treachery and Narcissism
Deep Sentiments about the State of the World
What’s On Los Angeles Pick of the Week
http://whatsonlosangeles.com/murphytottenham.html?fbclid=IwAR1_-BimRe5IJDMmgLolcIuuA4qSHklc0MHSLBOEwWHq9e_KlDID5Fz1uSo
Share the Selfishness
Available elsewhere, and from Amazon:
“In elegantly-wrought laments of self-loathing and mean-spirited love poems, the author finds that he has more to say on already exhausted subjects, and gives voice to the kind of thoughts most people prefer not to express but will nevertheless automatically relate to and be entertained by. Tottenham has staked out a singular terrain where egotism and self-loathing meet, where futility merges with urgency, and beauty is created out of bitterness. If nothing else, he furnishes proof that a poet maudit can still, if not thrive, at least survive, alive and unwell, in this benighted age.”
– from the introduction, by Louis Pipe
Roasting Sparks
Emptyscapes: Art Show
Say You Love Me
“I love you,” she says,
and my heart sinks.
Knowing what is required of me,
I attempt to reciprocate.
But it’s a struggle,
the words won’t take shape.
No other phrase is so hard to articulate;
no other sentiment is voiced so apprehensively.
I could be honest and say: I love you
but almost everything about you annoys me…
But somehow
those three precious, perilous syllables
are squeezed out, squeamishly:
“Isle… of you.”
It never sounds right when I say it,
but I say it
to put her at ease,
because what you get out of it,
temporarily,
is peace.






