Most pictures and words from Anthony C Murphy

Saturday, 31 March 2012


There were cries outside, languorous wails of woe. Back home it would be new additions to the fox clan, or cats below, maybe the unlovely gronking of rooftop gulls. The sounds here were human though, as human as a bullet.... 

.... from the new Terry Yanqui novel out Summer 2012.... It Started With A Wake. 

Thursday, 29 March 2012


Oh oh 


The Hand Painted
Pottery Guild
Of America

There’s a white smile
Of a slogan
If ever I saw one

I bet they always look nice
Don’t they
Time it is

Except in the shower
Or when they’ve just been fired
But it’s the same with us all
In times of undress
At moments of stress
Cracks start to appear
It’s like we’ve just come undone



It's a knockout....

Published by Epiphany Editions.


N train
it's not that easy

unlike Cluedo

Imagine if each Maccardees
had a link to any other
burger portals of the world
unite above subways

Wednesday, 28 March 2012


INESCULENT :   adj                  tasteless, inedible.

... as inesculent a piece as a reader has had to digeeste.

thanks to George Stone Saussy III

Friday, 23 March 2012


To sink to a depth 
For a deeper reading
Instead of this shallow breathing
Wouldn’t we all like some breadth?
You just get
The froth of frivolity
Skimmed off the surface
As grease from stock
It would be good to wallow
And flail lovingly
Amongst the boiling bones
For once in the broth
But I guess  it’s not going to be yet

Tuesday, 20 March 2012



The extremely wild life
Of a Central Park pond
Stands on one leg all spring 
Longing to save limbs from 
Hypothermian ends 
In cold lands of summer

And the fish that can't fly
Flap there impatiently
Waiting for Saturday
Crumbs from their memory

Saturday, 17 March 2012



BORGORE  -  Friday 16th, Webster Hall

The Gorestepper in The Devil’s Playhouse.
Where is the mess?
Borgore thinks he is different. He sees himself as a provocation addict, a metal head creating misadventures in dubstep. Still, he wants to make money. He is a brand, Buygore, you can purchase his black Fanny Wangs with leopard print cushions for 300 dollars. He is selling and here we are. He continues his blingyFlex video theme tonight. There are girls on poles, cheerleading with their cheek. Borgore’s tongue is firmly in, yet he hopes ours aren't, this is the tour after all - it’s a work out. The jarring thing about the Flex video is that it doesn’t let you settle into the smooth MTV pattern. The image constantly wobbles, shakes, flexes and the soundtrack is off.  On stage this is impractical, instead we get a bombardment of laser light and smoke, and the wobbling, flexing girls. 
Borgore could relax into tradition and let the party crowd assume the positions but he doesn’t, nothing lasts too long. Shapes are thrown along with air punches, yet it feels constrained. People scratch their heads as their awkward arms are still raised. The onstage entourage continues to grow almost to Borgore’s ignorance. People want to bounce, it’s three a.m. New girls try the poles whilst dancers take a break. Here we are sandwiched between SXSW and St.Patrick’s, and we’re already jaded. The MC doesn’t help, he underlines, he’s a walking exclamation mark and he looks like a mailroom clerk.
     Where is the edge? Does he want to see the guts of the customers, or just their skeletons? I’ve never seen so many people itching to dance, but he won’t release them. Is he making a point? Is he being different? The bass drops out, you can hear people talking, that’s unheard of. And then comes crowd favorite, Nympho, it’s a relief, there is a joyous singalong moment, he was just fucking with us after all. It gets nearly as big a cheer as when he spins Green Day later - then it does get messy.

Last night I was introduced to a girl called Tess...  Tess Tickles... at least I think she was a girl...


Friday, 16 March 2012

An Eye Cast In Aspic

Who said that?
Am I sure it was Noel Coward
Or some such wag
Graham Greene maybe
AA Gill ?
He wishes...
One of those jolly guys used to polishing porcelain
With their pristeen fingers
And none of them dishes anymore
Observing only and so sore
Like bulls' eyes gotten from the butchers
Placed squeamish on the petri
Watching a scalpel's approach
Complaining englishly
As critics
To a blunt life
But what does it mean? 
What does it mean?


Like Lonesome George she wanders
Will there ever be another?

George Clooney's arrest is a distraction for the bank heist Ben Affleck is doing across town

James Buck......

Clooney arrives

What has he got in his pocket?

The title was Richard Adams tweeterful appraisal at The Guardian

Civil Disobedience is alive and good looking or looking good

Thursday, 15 March 2012


Here dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose:
But young men think it is, and we were young.



The Old Sod

It wasn’t long ago that Joe escaped from Ireland. 1967 was his year of flight. For others down the centuries it has happened for whatever reasons - social, financial, and political - but at twenty-three years old Joe refused to be dragged out of his crapulous bed anymore by a sister intent on his confessing. The familial trappings had gotten too much. He had a father that was ancient, having fought in WW1. What could he possibly know of The Beatles? The hardness of the old fella and the forgetfulness! Joe used to see him standing on the bridge, staring into the river. He would have to walk dad home up the hill to Knockbrogan and his mother, the saint, bless her.
                               And besides, there were rumors of a pregnancy. There were secret visits to Liverpool that maybe Joe had funded. The small town gossip forced the hand that fortunately held a diploma and an open invitation to Johannesburg.

He had been seen as the lad about town of Bandon. He could tell a tale and he was regarded as semi-exotic after his trip to Paris the previous year. That had been a confirmation. The world outside had inside bathrooms and running water. Not only that but atheism too. Now he would wave goodbye to Maxwell, who had matched him step for step these past twenty years. He would get on that boat and have a look at infamous old England before heading for the sun of Sin City. Only it didn’t quite work out that way.

In a café in Matlock in the middle of the Midlands he entered into a competition. He was there with John who was from back home and had offered a couch. The rules were known to both and the waitress was the prize. She agreed to a drink later and said she would bring a friend. John and Joe butted heads and snorted and pawed the ground, Burton Ale was downed, bullshit was spouted, and later John went home, and Joe went home with the waitress.

It’s the same old game with similar consequences for the young, feckless and fertile. It is ageless and it makes the world go, if not round, then at least the shape it is. Joe decided to stay and look after Sue and the son they were expecting, but man did he feel trapped. They got married when she was three months pregnant and he felt the eyes of his mother-in-law burning into the back of his head. Gone were his dreams now, but that’s all they were. He had made it someplace else hadn’t he? All he could do was to be himself, he was good at it. He got a decent job in London based on his charm, and the three of them started again.

It was the place to be in the late sixties. He had a time of it. He was the top salesman on Old Bond Street and even measured Princess Margaret for a pair of patent leather heels. They came and went, the celebrities; Joe schmoozed before he knew what it meant. There were free trips and free drinks and more pressure. Sue was at home and it was too much. So he gave it up and they settled for less.

Over the years there were jobs in different towns and more babies. They headed further north, away from any vibrancy, away from the temptations of cities. Everyone grew up and the only constant was booze. It helped. It didn’t help. Free days were spent walking on English hills that were somehow a replacement for the fields of youth. Joe’s frustration bubbled up sometimes; the family all felt it at independent moments. It was no good but it was all there was. The days became a routine and the stories became worthless. Things came to the inevitable head but he was too old now to care. He didn’t want to work anymore at saving this part of his life. It had gotten away from him. His lashings out were followed by self-pitying tears and yet indifference from his kids. They found themselves growing stronger. 
                                        He was no longer needed and so found a hole where he could soothe himself the only way he knew how. Still it had the rolling backdrop of ancient Lancashire moors that seemed to soak up everything and yet remain. 
                He got himself a dog and took advantage of it. He was liked in the village and spent a fortune of time in the bookmakers placing fifty pence accumulators on horses that always seemed to finish in fifth.

And then it was over. Pneumonia got Joe, but there were bottles of pills on his bedside table, and bottles of brandy in the bin. His sister requested that he come home, so his estranged sons did some kind of duty and brought the ashes back to Bandon. He is buried now in the same plot as his mother and father, after a priest had blessed his return. He had escaped for a while there. 

Friday, 9 March 2012


The bar on Avenue B looked suitably dirty
It was dark and the windows gave no hint
As to what went on inside
I needed someplace quite
To finish the thoughts I had been carrying

There should have been sawdust on the floor
Like the Yates's of years ago
A few bearded men sat at the bar
Nibbling at chips
Or fries as they call them

I ordered a stout and watched the menu and looked at the screen
Two ultimate fighters got bloody on the canvas
It was obscene
The pizzas were dairy free
And the gravy was vegan
They have landed
A few punches
A righteous hook
Here and there
The cheezeless amongst us