Tag Archives: Stephen Murphy

The Love Of The Lie

I stopped believing in anything when I was 12 years old
And started deconstructing everything that I was ever told
I thought that when I got there, wherever there may be
That it would give me a good head start on the rest of humanity
Who I figured would eventually reach the same conclusions
That society is essentially based upon delusions
But by the time my 13th birthday had almost reached an end
I couldn’t help but notice an all-pervading trend
That my friends, or those I had then, just thought that I was mad
And dismissed my eccentricities as a passing teenage fad
But the days turned in to weeks & months, and months turned in to years

And I grew more alienated and distracted from my peers
As I peered in to the rabbit-hole of internet conspiracies
Where totalitarian control and governmental heresies
Have planned to implement an almost incremental coup
And the worst part is they’ll make you think they’re doing it for you.
And it was hard to talk about those things without just sounding strange

Or like the last known living outpost of the mentally deranged
Just to mention 9/11 to the blissfully naïve
Or to talk about the moon-landing to those who still believe
That not only was it possible, back in 1969
To simply live-stream the event to millions at a time
When we had yet to figure out how to put wheels on a suitcase
From more than two hundred and twenty thousand miles away in space
But it was also plausible to trust the deep regime
Who some say silenced Dr. King for his right to have a dream
Or who framed Lee Harvey Oswald for the death of J.F.K.
And ran Project M.K. Ultra alongside the C.I.A.

And they’ve a right to those beliefs, of course, though I still stand accused
Of not quite sharing their directives, their perspectives, or their views
As in; I’d sooner trust a lioness to mind my pet gazelle
Than I’d trust most politicians with the basic truth to tell.
But I don’t think I need a tin-foil hat for questioning the news
Or for suggesting that the planet’s population is abused
By a power that’s invested in the privilege of the few
Who’ve devoured and digested all we used to see as true

‘Cause there was a time I’m sure when that was simply common sense
Though now to call it common likely causes some offence
Or it’s proof I must be Sensist to the Ignorance-Is-Bliss-
Society for the Prevention of the Right to Still Exist.
But I spent years of being martyr hoping one day I might live
‘Til I learned some people take from you no matter what you give
And though I spoke to crowds of thousands from all corners of this land
I went home to the post-office with my pauper’s cap in hand
While the wolves in woollen sweaters saw their right to use the arts
For the profit to their pockets and to better play the parts
Of the token wooden soldiers as they marched us to the flames
Of another rigged agenda in these power-ridden games.

But I lost my faith in who I was and everything I did
And the only thing that saved me was the time spent with my kid
And in the presence of his innocence he taught me to begin
To see the greatest war that’s ever waged is always fought within
And the choices that we’re faced with aren’t just if we live or die
But to turn and face the truth or to learn to love the lie.

So I turned my back on politics, and came to the position
Where I couldn’t trust the government or trust the opposition
Or the media, the unions, or society at large
Or those unelected NGOs who feign to be in charge
Who claim the enemy is everywhere around us at all times
Through our mandatory masks that confound us and contrive
To dehumanise our faces and to propagate the fear
As they seek to track and trace us while to me it just appears
That this civil degradation has been planned and thus designed
With our social isolation and conditioning in mind.
And you can call me a conspiracist but I think that term is fraught
With the dangers of dismissing all kinds of critical thought
And to shut down conversations with a label that denies
The way to validation through this labyrinth of lies

But if I wear a mask in shops just to show the staff respect
That doesn’t mean I can’t see through the wilful mass neglect
Of our elderly in care homes, who are leaving life in fear
By believing politicians who are trying to sound sincere
While they’re quoting things like Mean Girls just to take the utter piss
Or the psychological impact at the heart of all of this.
But I don’t need for recognition, or to pick and choose a side
‘Cause my primary ambitions are to see through the divides
That are carefully and consciously and constantly imposed
By a nefarious agenda that’s increasingly exposed
And to try to make the world a small bit better for my son
and for the sake of all the future generations yet to come.

Stephen Murphy

Previously: Stephen Murphy on Broadsheet

Dear Boris by Stephen Murphy.

Dear Boris,

I’d been trying to ignore you, like some elderly relation
Who always seems to wait until a formal situation
To illustrate their ill-considered, prejudicial views
About the geo-political landscape or whomsoever they may choose.

But unlike that drunken uncle, who’ll grow sober and repent
It appears as though you’ve founded your entire government
On the premise of your own innate colonial ambitions
Where the rhetoric of fear, and hate, and all the old traditions
Have been dragged out of the grave and surreptitiously revived
By a xenophobic wave of politicians who’ve contrived
To redefine democracy, and turn it on its head
To hide the true plutocracy that governs in its stead.

But I grew up by the border, and I have family North and South
So it’s hard to just ignore the kind of bigotry you spout
When you can understand ‘The Troubles’ for the Civil War it was
And not some act of ‘folly’ or ‘The tail wagging the dog.’

And yeah, it’s true I am a Murphy, but my Grandad was a Sproule
And his father died in World War One when he was 12 years old
Who stood beside his fellow men to serve King George the 5th
At a time when men could still pretend and propagate the myth
That war was ever more than just a plaything for the rich
So while you talk about ‘Surrender’ now and ‘Dying in the ditch’
I just wish that you’d remember how that history was real
And not just propaganda for the prospect of a deal.

But I’m not so Euro-Centric to be utterly naïve
And I can understand the logic in why Britain voted leave
I mean – besides the flagrant lies and the mass manipulation
I can empathise with how the past would lead to a frustration
To see how once ‘Great’ Britain’s been belittled and reduced
To a bit part in the greater whole that Europe has produced.

‘Cause I’m not some classic advocate extolling the E.U.
I’m all too well aware to know that we’ve been shafted too –
We’ve had 42% of Europe’s banking debt
Inflicted on our people, though some would soon forget
The threat the ECB’s Jean Claude Trichet made
That a bomb would go off in Dublin if that fraud wasn’t repaid
Who brought a whole new meaning to the phrase of ‘Boom and Bust’
So I’m slow to see these bureaucrats as people we can trust.

But to be honest with you Boris, the older that I get
The more I realise that I can only trust my pet
And yeah, she took a while to settle, as a Setter cross Retriever
But when I look into her eyes at least I know I can believe her
Which is more that can be said about politicos today
In Dublin or in Brussels, or there in the UK.

‘Cause it feels like being caught between yourselves and the E.U.
Is a bit like being taught to play Beethoven on Kazoo
Where the music written down might look and act the same
But no matter how it’s played out it’s going to sound insane.

So fuck your jingoistic bullshit, and your normalising wrongs
And stick the backstop up your arse where your old empire belongs
And fuck your open racism, and fuck your prorogation
And fuck your Eton college and your Oxford education
And fuck taking away the whip from MPs who disagree
I commend them for their courage and display of bravery
To see you for the despot that you well and truly are
Fuck how you think, and what you say, and everything you are
‘Cause I never thought I’d say this, or live to see the day
But the more I see your face the more I miss poor Theresa May.

And sorry for the outburst, it’s just the aul’ Tourettes
It’s a curse of an affliction, but y’know how hard it gets
But sure look, I’ll let you go, and for now I’ll leave you be
And Remain your closest ally, and your friendly neighbour, me.

Stephen Murphy

Previously: Stephen Murphy on Broadsheet

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Stephen Byrne

Lisa Naylor writes:

This isn’t my first time contacting you about the mental health services in our country, but sadly today I am not writing on my own behalf.

On Friday, the 15th of January, Stephen Byrne attended Beaumont A&E to seek medical assistance. He was 20, a devoted father and suicidal. A few days prior, he had attempted to hang himself multiple times while in police custody; at that time he was brought to the Mater but was released.

Despite informing staff at Beaumont of his intent to commit suicide, he was discharged. The only help he was offered was that his file would be sent to his clinic in Ballymun.

On Tuesday, the 19th of January, Stephen went missing; his body was discovered two days later, on his daughter’s second birthday. To date, nobody from the Ballymun clinic has made contact with Stephen’s family.

As anyone with mental health difficulties knows, asking for help when you are at your lowest is incredibly difficult. It takes unbelievable strength to fight your own mind and reach out. This is especially true for young men, as historically our country has stigmatised those with mental illnesses as weak or failing in some way.

Men are statistically less likely to seek treatment for mental health issues, but they are four times more likely to die by suicide then women. Yet, when a young man found the courage to walk into an A&E department he was turned away, with devastating consequences.

I know all too well the pain and desolation of reaching out when all you want to do is die, only to be dismissed and invalidated by the very people who are supposed to offer aid. It might sound histrionic to some, but they might as well help you to step onto the ledge.

After my last suicide attempt, as soon as I regained consciousness I was discharged from Beaumont A&E without ever speaking to a doctor, let alone a member of the psychiatric team. I know a young woman who just last week attempted suicide inside the hospital grounds, and was simply patched up and sent on her way.

I know that there are many people with similar accounts, especially those with a history of self-harm or suicide attempts. This is because certain hospitals, as a result of overcrowding and staff shortages, have a policy whereby patients who present more than a handful of times with self-inflicted injuries, including suicide attempts, are no longer referred to the psychiatric team for assessment. We are seen as a waste of resources.

This is not just a local issue, across the nation there are thousands of people waiting for referrals, many of whom will have to travel for hours for an appointment as a result of hospital closures. In some areas the wait for a psychology referral is two years. In 2014 nearly 3,000 children and adolescents were on waiting lists for psychiatric referrals and children are routinely admitted to adult psychiatric units.

As a country we are finally starting to break the draconian cycle of shame and secrecy that surrounds mental illness, but our mental health service remains inadequate, underdeveloped and underfunded.

The Government and politicians are quick to promise change and reforms, but while we wait for them to turn words into actions more and more lives will be lost. Sadly any improvements will be too late for Stephen, his family and his little girl, Ava.

Stephen asked for help and he was rejected; someone decided he was not important enough for their time, their care or their compassion. At what point does someone’s life become dispensable? Who are we supposed to turn to if our own healthcare system deems us unworthy?

They tell people suffering from mental health difficulties to ‘speak up’; to talk to a professional; to not suffer in silence. They ask for our trust, and then break it.

Ask yourself, if you were living in hell; if you were in so much pain that you would take your own life to escape it, would you put your survival in the hands of an institution that will likely make your life even more unbearable?

The Samaritans: 116 123 (free)

Console: 1800 247 247

A life lost (Lisa Naylor, Full Of Muchness)

Previously: Please Listen To Lisa

Yesterday: ‘Caoilte’s Story Is Not Uncommon’

Screen Shot 2015-10-05 at 10.32.35

Dear Enda Part 2 by Stephen Murphy.

Dear Enda,

I wrote to you a while back but you never did reply.
I know you’re really busy so don’t worry man it’s fine,
I’m sure it can’t be easy being Taoiseach of us plebs
but at least the Europeans are still ruffling your head.

It’s good to know you’re busy but I’m pretty busy too,
I have a little boy now and he doesn’t have a clue, 
that his future on this island is in jeopardy
’cause you have chosen to deny what’s self-evidently true,

In favour of an empire entirely designed
to conspire to constrict us so that we’re intertwined,
to a point where if we need to fart we have to sign the forms,
and then send them back to Brussels as methane gas reforms.

So please don’t tell Herr Merkel but I farted twice this morning,
I didn’t really mean to but I started without warning,
but I’d hope that she’d forgive me as I’m fairly sure the reason
was the German supermarkets now have broccoli in season.

I know I’m being facetious but it’s not too far removed,
from the specious declarations that are easily disproved
with a basic understanding of a union as a whole,
where a concept of demanding creates a construct of control.

But power is a liquor some people just can’t hold,
It devours and embitters the peace within their soul,
And while I’m open to correction if there’s something that I missed,
On the basis of reflection I think Herr Merkel’s pissed,

Cause she’s drained the bottle dry but she’s still looking for more
And she’s feigned she’s gonna try to build a Europe we adore,
Where the Germans hold the cash while the rest of us must pay
But if Merkel had a moustache, well, you know the old cliché…

I’ve been told I’m Anti-Europe but I don’t think that I am,
Sure wasn’t she yer one who ran away and married Uncle Sam?
They were living out in Malta – near yer man who can’t be mentioned –
In a mansion built by Nato’s taste for military intervention.

I know their basic premise is that war is beneficial,
That bombs equate to business and that peace is superficial,
But I’ve always had this notion of a world where I’ve envisioned
That invading other countries is an act of terrorism,

And that those who give the orders should stand trial out in the Hague,
For the disrespect of borders but it seems the rules are vague;
The Western world dictate the terms of what they deem the crime,
Yet they always seem to summarise that what they do is fine.

You’d probably think such notions are idealist and naïve,
And in truth you’re probably right, but I’d like to still believe
In a world where international law was made to be upheld,
As a rational code of ethics but that myth has been dispelled

By the way that wars are waged on the premise of a lie,
While they label us enraged for our failure to comply.
But I’m not some left-wing truant who’s just anti-everything,
Nor some neo-liberal fascist who’s entirely right-wing

I’m just a normal human being who still cares about this place,
And I’ve been called anti-statist but it’s simply not the case,
‘Cause this isn’t left or right, it’s just straight up right & wrong,
And while you fight within your fetters to pretend that you’re still strong,

I’ve just always found it better to use both my lungs to breathe,
Both my legs to walk and both my eyes to see
And the truth of what I’m seeing’s that this country’s on its knees,
And rather than the cure you’re still pushing the disease,

But when you’re questioned on these matters you revert to fluency
In a language left in tatters by the course of history.

Ach níl morán Gaeilge agam ‘s tá brón orm faoi sin,
Ach tá fhios agam céard a tharla daichead bhliain ó shin,
Nuair a bhuaigh tú do suíochán mar a fuair d’athair bás,
‘S ní raibh seans ag éine a bhí in aghaidh leatsa sa rás

Mar is tusa mhicín Henry, peileadóir i triocha sé,
A bhuaigh Sam le Mhaigh Eo ‘s mar sin chomh-súil le Dé –
Sch ba cuma liom faoi sin, an bhfuil fhios agat le bhur dtoil,
Cén fath go raibh tú fós sa phost an príomhoide sa scoil,
Nuair a bhí tú in nDáil Éireann, thar céad mhíle ó Mhaigh Eo,
Le na triocha ‘s a sé bhliain nó mas féidir leat níos mó?

But to be honest with you Enda, I still think that it’s harsh,
To hear so many people who show up to every march
Declare you the worst Taoiseach that this country’s ever had,
It’s as if they can’t remember that the rest were just as bad.

But the problem isn’t you, it isn’t even Burton,
It’s a system that’s designed and confined to keep us hurtin’
While the masters of resources dot the i’s and cross the t’s
On their psychopathic contracts like this TTIP.

I’m sure there’s gotta be days and nights when you must come to ask,
How the hell you came to land with such a massive task –
For a teacher by profession who came up the ranks and stuck
To a Taoiseach in recession while the country’s rightly –

Up the creek and down the pan, and round the knotted twist,
While the people at the bottom simply struggle to exist,
But as much as I would like to think that you are well intentioned,
I still saw you in New York with yer man who can’t be mentioned,

The way I saw you with Lagarde, and every two-bit thief,
Acting the blaggard as if it’s light relief,
To pretend that you’re important to those who hold the strings,
While you know you’re just a jester in the courtyard of the king.

But the truth is, as I see it, that this island is abundant,
I could call you a gobshite but I think that it’s redundant
To just label people names for the sake of angry words,
While the path remains the same for the masses of the herd.

I’d just rather as an island if we sat down for a chat,
To discuss some basic issues and the crux of where we’re at,
‘Cause as far as I can see it, unless we hit reverse
The road to where we’re heading isn’t better now it’s worse.

But I still believe in Ireland, though some may find that strange.
I believe that as a people we reserve the right to change.
I believe that underneath this web of core deceit,
There’s a movement of the masses who’ve begun to find their feet

And you and I both know that the masses on the move,
Still possess the power to redress and to remove
Those who would oppress them from their plinth within the Dáil,
Whether Fine Gael or Labour, Sinn Féin or Fianna Fáil.

I believe that we’ve been lied to, abandoned and abused,
And denied the basic tenets of our sovereign right to choose,
By the leaders of a Union who just see us as a toy
At the mercy of their making and the whim of their employ.

But I’ve farted so I’ll finish ’cause the post is gonna go,
Tabhairt aire do n-ár dtíre ‘s go néirí linn go deo.

Previously: “We’re Trying To Shape The Future”

Stephen Murphy (Facebook)


You know who you are.

Stephen Murphy writes:

“I made a video essay around the idea of people taking videos on their cameraphones at gigs and how there’s a need for more sufficient imagery in modern society. It includes a brief appraisal of A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night (2015) by Ana Lily Amirpour….

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This Isn’t Just About The Water by Stephen Murphy

This isn’t just about the water,
It’s about the prostitution of this island,
And the clients who have bought it.
It’s about how they bought and sold us,
Like we’re cattle at a mart,
As we swallow what they told us,
And tore ourselves apart.
It’s not meant to be divisive,
This is not just us and them,
Instead we should unite ourselves again to stand as men, women and children, Whose time has come to say,
That the system isn’t working,
There must be another way.
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