Most pictures and words from Anthony C Murphy

Saturday, 17 December 2011


It was an evening in January and Brighton had shut down because of blizzards for the first time in twenty years. I had trundled my way to the shop for provisions and on my way back I noticed a doddery figure with a wad of new snow in his hand on the opposite side of the street. As I neared him I feared him less for I determined he was of an age that was no threat. Or shouldn't be. Still, he clocked me and moved into the road. He slurred some words in my direction, "You've stepped over the over line there, Son!" and as he did so he raised his fistful. Now I knew it was too big for him to throw with any kind of accuracy, and I also knew that I too had an ice ball cocked and ready to go in my right paw (for I had been keeping my eye in at lampposts and such). "Go for it!" I offered, showing him what I had prepared. He looked and considered and laughed at the position he had put himself in. "Ha ha! Well done! You got me. You go on". But the thrill of the thing must have turned his head because at ten paces he hollered and aimed and counted to three, then he shot his load… straight into a tree. He stood there silent and who knows what watery thoughts dribbled away, but he was ready to take whatever I had. His sense of irreverence reminded me of my dad, and I let fly at his head hoping to smash his few remaining teeth in. I missed him too as it turned out. You should always aim for the heart.


It was the night before Christmas
But only by minutes
Under the snow dusted dome of St. John’s
A congregation of celebrants
Some had started early
Not wanting to be late
Or come undone

Out of the slowed night
They padded and fluffed
Into the church
All a flicker
All golden and red rich
With sanctuary

Fat Father Unsworth
Huffed into robes
Patent leather shoes
Unseen these years of a puff
In finery
Invisible eyes lost cheekily
Oblivious to the vestments and routine
Assisted by little Sean Reilly
The orphan
Scrubbed and squeaky in a surplice

Cassock, stole, alb and chasuble
Drapery green and gold
A pig stuck in a seasonal tree
But pumped up with pomp
Fat Father Unsworth had gravitas
That belied his apparent immobility
When it came to Mass
He floated

The drunks at the back
Plastered the brickwork
Those in the pews
Closed their eyes
And took advantage
The heavenly choir above
Boosted by Mrs. Kelly’s sibilance
Hissed out hymns to the tired
The merry
The downright pissed

And in came Father Unsworth
Little Sean Reilly
The orphan behind him
Everyone stood
And words were said
And someone snored
Sacrament was dished out
Duty was done
The ponderous affectation of the priest had been suffered
For another year some torture
For a while some guilt had been bought and sold

And so to home through the white soft streets
Humming their lullabies

Little Sean Reilly would stay a while yet
Help to divest the swollen body
As it sipped at something stronger than altar wine
Then clean the accoutrements
And back to the chapel
Snuffing out candles and
Having a dip in the molten wax

The pleasure of peeling at fingerprint moulds

There and then from high in the still church
Came a lonely cough
That turned Sean cold
Someone not gone

The echo fades
Sean’s ears
Deaf to the quiet now
His heart as a trapped rabbit
Though his blood pumped true
And his legs moved him on in his duty
The dossers must be cleared from the pews

But waiting for little Sean Reilly
In the balcony
White faced and prone
Masochistic on wood
Hugged into a coat full of holes
Was the shade of a man
Once known

Away from the safety of the vestibule
As fat Fr. Unsworth snorted his whiskey
To the gods
Sean went
Up under the Byzantine mosaic
Beneath the dead eyes of Jesus
To creak on the open plan stairs
For to do his duty
The scared child ascended
Wholly righteous
Towards feathered authority
To confront this snorer

Although thirteen years old
And still wearing his dress

The snow drifted like a crowd
Camped out on the doorstep
Sean had only his light

Who is there

A shape
Holey and lowing 

The shadow had words
Come near
I need you

The boy scout
Went to the man
Looked into eyes

Fires in windows frosted

And Sean saw his father
Or the mess of what was
Riddled with bullets
Shot through with politics
Killed by religion

And as a spirit lay bleeding
It gave of some blood
A bloody lie and a gun

Revenge us 
He said
And then he was dead
Wrapped up and done like Christmas

Sean's only gift
Was cold and lumpen
Orphaned twice
It gave some freedom

So Sean shot the priest in his arse whilst running
Put some holes in the chasuble too
Stole a chalice, a monstrance, the offertory box
And never did say god bless 

Monday, 12 December 2011



Your cold voice calls at five in the morning
Through the gap I had left for night’s stale breath
Before sun or gulls’ elemental yawns
You drunkenly whisper of

And take me with you this rotten harvest
Bury us deep, slow the blood in our chests
We sleep ‘til spring leans its leaves to the wind
Green in our dreams free of care

We wake to fresh scenes and receding dementia
A foot of snow upon the pillow
And headstones at our feet
The pile of cones on the sill are open
And winter comes in like a bear

Saturday, 3 December 2011