Cursed Murphy versus The Resistance

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  • Release: July 24, 2020

  • Burn Hibernia Burn

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      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

  • Climb

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      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 –
      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 –

  • This Cursed Earth

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      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
      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
      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
      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

  • Bells of Hell

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      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
      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
      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
      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
      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
      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

  • Foxhole Prayer

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      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

  • Cursed Murphy's Blues

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      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
      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’
      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

  • The Poor Mouth

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      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
      then speak.

  • rise Again

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      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.

  • The Resistance

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      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

  • We are Dead Stars

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      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