Cursed Murphy versus The Resistance

Tom Joad is risen from his bed
he says, You people venerate your dead
over the breath and blood of those who sweat to earn
their daily bread, and prate about a nation once again
again, dead generations
over them unborn
and he said, Them that you did not elect
put a new world order in effect
from Calvary Hill to the Diocese of Ferns,
Burn Hibernia burn
He said them druids came, them druids left
then Rome, the Crown, the IMF,
'til every hand of Mammon took its turn
but when the coloniser’s been and gone
the slave always enslaves his own
and someone makes a killing on the farm
Burn Hibernia burn
But you who buy and sell all human dreams
I'll take an axe to your machine
in scripture it is writ that the worm will turn
and a day will come when wretched men
get their heads from between their knees again
and beat their drums and sound that battle horn
the tide'll rise like a leviathan
there’ll be lootin’, there'll be riotin’
the poles will flip, the seas will surely churn
and come judgment day in every street
you’ll heed this jihad on repeat
every frequency you scan or dial you turn
Burn, Hibernia –
burn boys burn, if you’re of Mammon born you’ll burn
and no firewall will keep you safe from harm
burn boys burn, you’ll wish the day that you were born
Your mothers dashed your brains upon the stones
Flame on

Here is what it is
and here’s where it’s at
you’re stuck inside this rut, you can’t get out
you're sick of every breath that comes out of your mouth
and yet, you’ve come too far to quit
you want to start
you don't know where to start
your blood is curdled with the bitterness
but if you can haul your carcass from the filth
and crawl out of your lowest grossest parts
where you can't hear your temper tantrum heart
there’s got to be a better place than this
And though this way is strange for us
I know this path is dangerous
I know that you've been haunted
in your marrow and your mind
and though this way seems death to us
and though this stretch is treacherous
though you are exhausted,
here's the ladder, here's the spine
though you are exhausted –
climb
I know you think that you don't have the stuff
the heart is snarling on its leash
here’s where you've arrived
here’s where you're alive
you're paralysed with mania, with rage.
but deep within this cage of bone and cartilage
you know there is a better place than this
And though this way is strange for us
I know this path is dangerous
I know that you've been haunted
in your marrow and your mind
and though this way seems death to us
and though this stretch is treacherous
though you are exhausted
here's the ladder, here's the spine
though you are exhausted –
climb

Born out of eternity, headed for the dirt
expelled from the Maternity, into a world of hurt
born into recovery, recovery from birth
born to be or not to be on permanent alert
Chorus:
Born to be redeemed by that within which you bring forth
born to be destroyed by that within which you do not bring forth
in rage and love we venture out
from poles of death to poles of birth
rage and love are all we have
down here on this cursed earth
Born to bite your knuckles
born to suck it up
born to swallow just desserts
working for a jerk
born to indentured servitude
dependent on the public purse
born knowing your attitude
is only getting worse
Chorus
Born to take the power back
from them who took it first
them who sold the oil reserves
and seized the waterworks
born into a time of war
between the craven and corrupt
old men need the scent
of young men's blood to get it up
Chorus
Born into the bowery
born into the church
born to flex your muscles
chasing after skirt
born into entitlement
the stuffing in a shirt
born into enlightenment
for all enlightenment is worth
Chorus

Well I first set out in twenty-twelve
and bid my home farewell
a full grown man, sure of himself
but soon enough I fell
to poker and John Jameson
and laudanum as well
and I blew all my inheritance on
a beautiful
illusion
of Hell.
Then I heard it from the distance
the summoning of a bell
calling me to witness
calling me to tell
of everything that came to pass
from Parnell Street to Calvary Hill
where Jesus and Barabbas glimpsed
their beautiful
illusion
of Hell.
So I testified as best I could
with every living cell
spoke of fire, spoke of blood
spoke blasphemy as well
quoted every source of worth
from Seneca to Packard Bell
invoked in every place on earth
my beautiful
illusion
of Hell.
I spoke with priests and Pharisees
consulted with the oracle
listened for the rising seas
my ear against the shell
all things had one thing to impart
one story they could spell
the human mind, the human heart
is a beautiful
illusion
of Hell.
So now I’ve reached the end of it
I am escaped to tell
of the devils I’ve consorted with
the shit I’ve seen, it's biblical
the scholar and the halfwit
the solicitor in her citadel
and when all is done, all men are one
in a beautiful
illusion
of hell
Because them bells of hell they ring
for you but not for me
O death where is thy sting
or grave thy victory
from the Royal Canal to Skinner’s Hill
from Colmcille's to Portobell
from last to first
all men are cursed
to toll the bells of hell

Six or seven beers
here comes the fear
a nightmare woke me
I was scared
I talked to God
God was not there
Saint Peter hear
this foxhole prayer.
Outside my door
sounds like a war
they're hacking up the tarmac
shuttering the bars
give me one more beer
before war’s declared
Sweet Jesus hear
this foxhole prayer.
But though I walk with ghosts
I know no fear
nor loss of heart
nor dark despair
we will endure
we’ll get through this
this foxhole prayer says I exist
this foxhole prayer says
I am sick
of the sadness
and the madness
and all this
apocalyptic shit
how sweet the sound
that saved this wretch
I swear
that the baby’s first wail is a foxhole prayer
the psalm and lamentation is a foxhole prayer
the toilet wall scrawl is a foxhole prayer
Rimbaud, Baudelaire, foxhole prayers
Parliament and Funkadelic, foxhole prayer
Nina singing Sinnerman, foxhole prayer
London Calling is a foxhole prayer
Never Mind the Bollocks is a foxhole prayer
Fight the Power is a foxhole prayer
People Have the Power is a foxhole prayer
John the Revelator is a foxhole prayer
Shall We Gather at the River is a foxhole prayer
put your head against the screen
tell me what you hear
a hundred thousand lost souls crying for an ear
a hundred thousand people singing foxhole prayers
and what Samuel Beckett wrote at the end of The Unnamable
might be the greatest of all foxhole prayers
he said: I can’t go on
I’ll go on
Amen

Well the world outside is burning
and heaven's blown a fuse
even your mother is disowning you
and Torquemada's at the screws
your soul is one big hernia
you've taken to the booze
I'm sorry son, but your coming on
with the Cursed Murphy blues
there ain't a part of you that is not sore
your heart is one big bruise
your bank account has bounced the rent
and penalised you for the dues
there's fascists rapping at your door
and them boys don't use lube
I'm sorry kid but you've been hit
with the Cursed Murphy blues
Chorus:
So throw down Mother Nothingness
step up Father Death
come drop your bombs
let's get it on
in the time that we got left
some days you feel like Mister Sisyphus
some Lady Macbeth
but come the worst
we'll drive that hearse
while we've got the breath
Now god and Satan made a bet
and neither liked to lose
both smote poor Job near half to death
'til his boils began to ooze
but Job was plain titanium
he knew this ain't no pleasure cruise
he said ‘These sores is nothing more
than the Cursed Murphy blues’
Chorus
So if you feel like Action Jackson
but you look like Harry Crews
you just can't get no traction
and your ex-wife's on the news
your boss has got this contract
but you know its a ruse
one thing’s for sure, there ain't no cure
for the Cursed Murphy blues
Chorus

Admit it, Minister
when you think about the poor
– the working poor, the self-employed,
the part-time unemployed, the long-term unemployed –
you feel… secure
you’re not some acne’d geek in a leisure suit, smoking on the street
his snot-nosed brood of piglets – fruit of the mickey money – brawling around his feet,
you’re no Romanian, Ukrainian or Greek or geezer from Mozambique leeching provision off the state to the tune of twenty-two quid a week,
you’ve never dragged your carcass into the Intreo offices to fill out forms, tick boxes, waiting ten, eleven weeks for processing of claim,
subsisting on the Aldi super-six
hiding from the meter-reader 'cos the estimate is cheaper,
negotiating with the revenue, the debt collector’s,
freaking out about the rent, the phone, the loans,
the morning post that hits the doormat with the sound of a stopped heart,
ripping open the envelope –
how bad is it? It’s bad,
how you gonna pay for an i-pad so’s the kid can sit her Junior Cert?
I admit it, Minister, before the floor gave way, before I fell, I was where you are: asleep inside the matrix, dreaming in a vault,
until an algorithm written by visionary men
in visionary spectacles
wearing visionary clothes
men with code for souls
learned to replicate my skills
and the red pill woke me with a jolt,
do me a favour, Minister
consult your calendar
and mark for me the last time you received a letter from Justicius Intrium
invoking the threat of Stubb’s Gazette over the matter of an unpaid fifty quid on a lapsed mobile phone contract,
or the last time you were interrogated by a welfare inspector who sat across the desk like Deckard trying to determine if you’re a human or a replicant,
and Minister, if I may be bold, do you recall the last time you were cold?
No, really cold, I mean, fucking freezing, I mean, breathing vapour,
sleeping in your overcoat,
forced to choose from rent, or food, or firewood,
your heart clenched like a fist from sleep paralysis
and the bowel-level fear you’ll end up in a shelter with your daughters –
and mark for me the hour
no, the week
the last time that you missed a meal
involuntarily
then speak.

Men made a world
into which you did not fit
could not be hammered into it
like lead, like tin
though jackdaws screamed into your mind
and jackals mocked your name
you did not deny your god - your word – for any man
when they stripped you of your garments
and put you to the flame
they burned your bones
you turned to smoke
you rose again.
You spoke your truth, you stirred it up
though haters called you traitor, spat into your mouth
you forgave them, you outlived them
by your epitaph: your laugh
and when you'd breathed your last
we took you off your cross
we burned your bones
you turned to smoke
you rose again.
Some said that you once loved or you were loved
love flowered like a fire
and then it burned down to the stem
you took the pain, you put the stick between your teeth
you bit, you screamed
into the black eye of the sun
you slept alone
in a bed that boiled with ghosts
rats inside your chest
you cried out in the darkness
you comforted yourself
you died that night
when you awoke
they’d burned your bones
you turned to smoke
you rose again.
They cannot break you
you will bend
you are beholden only to the wind
no cell within remains unchanged
from the morning you were born
every molecule of blood inside your veins
has known its own regeneration
you are protean, ever changing
this is what you are
and what you are
will be transformed
when this all ends
we’ll burn your bones
you’ll turn to smoke
you’ll rise again.

This night is ours
it's all we've left
all we have is breath
but no matter what
giant ball of shite
threatens to strike the earth
we'll show no fear
we will not despair
nor will we submit
to the werewolves at the door
tomorrow we resume the fight
not with Kalashnikovs or Armalites
but the words we bear as armour
against all that we abhor
you know who you are
this is the resistance
prepare for war

She turns her face up to the sky, its stars as bright as eyes. Solace there in knowing all who’ve passed out of this realm can likely see those stars the same, this universe made small enough to reckon all might meet again beyond eternity. All those departed looking down, dead generations, sentient, alive in memory.
She sees the precious biosphere, so fragile, so fragile, like a spell, the film of oxygen that keeps our world alive. Sees this earthly vessel we call home, a peering eye, a stone of blue and white suspended in an inky sea, pin-pricked by stars that make her think upon the tiny pulsing creatures of the deep, amoebic ancestors of men, men whose souls are like the earth itself, partially eclipsed by shadow of its satellite, the moon, half in darkness, half in light.
From that elevation none discern the borders that exist only within the minds of men, nor can they see the wars our kind have waged on foot of arguments about the names of god, or property, or nation states, only the landmass and sea, the planet’s curvature, the earth, our ark, a perfect vessel housing precious freight, orbiting the sun, circled by the moon in turn.
And a dawning comes upon her mind. There’s no damnation or reward after our flesh’s expiry, no good or evil that exists beyond our human field, only matter and its opposite. No soul need fear the sword of any tyrant or his agency, for in the eye of wide eternity we’re all already dead. There’s no apocalypse, for time is lightning, it can always fork, and at that point of bifurcation you can change your path, each man the architect of history yet undreamt –
'Cos we are dead stars
it doesn’t matter what they do
we are immune
we are immortal
we are dead stars me and you
we must shine as though we’ve got no time
we must live as though we’ve been and gone
we are dead moons, we are dead suns
we’re dead stars
everyone.
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