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lyrics

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.

credits

from Cursed Murphy Versus the Resistance, released July 24, 2020

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Cursed Murphy Versus the Resistance Wexford, Ireland

An eight-piece head-on collision between post-punk poetry, noise-rock and ambient atmospheres. Based in Wexford, Ireland.

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