Most pictures and words from Anthony C Murphy

Thursday, 9 May 2013


I just listened to Peggy Lettermore. There’s so much I don’t understand about the Irish and their voice. Not the brogue they wear easily everywhere they tread. Not that Oirishness. No. Or the Gaelic either. That other language underneath.  There is something there that excludes. It may be a clan thing. It’s something I had always thought was a part of me - tradition, family, culture - and I read and wrote and sang and danced and cried and did my bit, not noticing, until my dad died, that it didn’t need me. And not only did it not need me but it was laughing. Of course in the 80’s and 90’s when all was going well we were tolerated. We got The Pogues. They made sense to me and my dad at the same time. There was a mutual understanding there. He escaped and I wanted to know why when I thought his place must be better than England. But he never told me anything. He never started or joined any Erin go bragh clubs. He wanted to run from all that religion, from those clans, and yet he got trapped in the land of his family’s former captors, and trapped by babies. 

Tuesday, 7 May 2013


Hunched and needy
Like baby gulls
We stalk the street
For sustenance
Stepping gingerly
The once
Tea bags
And broken needles
That spill from brightening bins
In the dwindling dawns of August
 Once we dreamt
Of better days within this
Earthen purgatory
When we were brown and pretty
It was no job
To breathe more and less freely
But now we stalk the streets
Beneath the laughing mooning ball above
In between the raining drops
By the graffitoo shuttered shops
Into the maw
The muscled chops
The Royal Nail
The lifers inside
So lifeless with pride
Good Morningly! grunt their acknowledge
Let out to their wives at eventide
They are always back here stirring their porridge
Will be two hours yet as a coffee-god’s pet
Before we can summon a smile
We keep weather-beaten heads down
In the back of Transits
On old copies of goals extra or extra goals
Or made up goals with moving posts
As the red valkyries descend
From the upstairs garage
Into the yard yawning with boredom
Like the back doors cold open wide
Waiting is time
And labour intensive
And work is last on the mind

A beardy they branded Jumanji walks by
And there’s Dazzer sungover again
And Grizzly Badams with his drizzly voice
And desiccated Ruth with a fag at her chin
And are they as desperate or do they prepare
And are they aware and of course do they care
About this all pervasive attitude
The constant twatting platitudes
For that’s all we hear
Shaven headed voices
Spitting casual brutalities
From their fascicle
There in an element that never forgives
Closed ranks of a herd
But this pack is bird like
Right wing they are
For a working union
A bundle of sour white faces
Who defend their misguide
With persiflage turning
To vicious whispers
And insult camouflaged by
Supposed camaraderie
Banter they call it
The fuckers
Forget diversity
They need dimension
Even Postman Pat had three
Which maybe hard to define
On a flatscreen tv
Although there was more depth in that episode
When he refused to deliver leaflets for the BNP

Friday, 3 May 2013



Coming out of the woodwork
It is a portent
Centipedes eating ants in the bed
This ark has rot
We should not have brought on the termites, Noah!
Get your
Shingle shots
Flu jabs
Anything to make it seem
That you are not giving in
Vote for the mayor
Or don’t
Vote for the other guy
Who won’t
Pucker up for
The apocalypse
Of all places
Doesn’t feel the pinch
Because nothing goes on there
And on and on
And you can’t have an end
When nothing has begun
Nothing has begun again
Thank the flies of the lord
...And whatever they house
God cock that crows for some
For others, king crab louse
Thank the flies
That you live in Ipswich
Which is a metaphor
For any shitty urban sprawl
At least it has its uses
Thank someone somewhere for that
You can have it all
You see
Some of you
When the rest have gone 


And she said....

I don't know about you
But I'm guessing
We're not that dissimilar
Being from the same
And all
I mean you are from
Too, right?
Forget it
My little joke

I didn't
I'm not


I can't complain
Being North European
And having all the
Of that
Just wish it was thicker

Wednesday, 1 May 2013




Liberty lived in New York
But she had never seen the city
She was too busy
With work

One day her work just dried up
She didn’t know why
There was nothing left for her to do

She put down her flashlight
Took off her tiara
Scratched her head
Rested her arms
And looked about
Her neck creaking with stiffness

She saw that her uniform was a little shabby
And so, she thought, a trip to Manhattan
To shop!

It wasn’t very far
She landed on the island and walked up Broadway
There was nobody around
But all the stores were open
Where had everyone gone
She wondered
Maybe they’d moved on
After that last storm
And then there had been the constant sun

She stomped around the fashion district
Then peered up 5th Avenue
Surely they’d have something to fit somewhere
Her eyes were wide as Macy’s windows
Framed in an eight foot face
Yet dazed by emptiness

She had seen the Empire State looking sad
And the Chrysler a bit twisted
As she gazed in wonder at what humans could do
With some glass and metal and concrete
She sat down on the Library steps
And contemplated her huge feet
As she took off her sandals
Size 82’s
In the scale of the human race
Maybe there was nothing for her here
It wasn’t much fun without people
Maybe she would have to go to China

She decided to ask the President if he needed her at all
So she set off for South Dakota and Mt. Rushmore




"Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?"

Clarice Lispector