Psychogeography 2024

Jones Irwin, Republic of Ireland

11 December 2025

The 18 still goes to Tile Hill

from Stand U at Pool Meadow bus station

and the sun continues to shine on the dirty concrete

late August with rumours on the street

that Putin might next attack the disunited UK


No one here seems unduly worried

with enough small problems to preoccupy small minds

the Far-Right graffiti at Canley hardly bothers passers-by


At the Pentecostal Church across from the run down

George Shaw flats beside the high-rise Ramada

there is a woman with a pram but no baby in

just a scary looking doll which smiles all the while


Unlike the local yokels all frowns and sulks

deep sighs to see another futile summer out

St. George’s flags fly from Fifties Triumph factory houses

so weirdly at odds with the middle-class Chinese students

carrying flat pack furniture and fancy carriers with the best of pillowcases and duvets

here at Warwick Uni PLC to research thrice the price PhDs in Global Economic Sadistic Policy (GESP)


Back in the city centre square some Reform Protestant preacher

is standing outside The Botanist calling for Repentance Now

the dreadlocked Rasta man plays steel guitar on the Burges


singing songs by Marley and Marcus Garvey

his extended version of Susan Cadogan’s Hurt So Good is a particular treat

there is a woman with the biggest tits I’ve ever seen dancing to this

in a Lycra body suit that is far too small for her

although she doesn’t really seem to care

Note on “Some Poems from the Passionate Margins of the Alt-Left”

If these poems are political (defiantly they are!), then they don’t sit comfortably for me within any doctrinal or dogmatic ideology. At the same time, they derive their anger and their energy from a passion which is rooted in a recognition of historical and contemporary injustice (whether subtle or more painfully searing), but which also looks to the courage of those prepared to stand up strongly against such degrading forms of oppression. Now and again, these short texts choose to laugh with or at such difficult experiences, also with some self-mocking (as we say in Dublin on the banks of the Liffey, ‘sláinte’). Whether one might say Marxist or Anarchist (or sometimes both), ultimately they conjoin in an ethos from Handsworth’s (neo-Caribbean) Steel Pulse; love thy neighbour. Ah, go on! 

An Irishman in Manchester the Night the Queen Died is part of the “Some Poems from the Passionate Margins of the Alt-Left” Series. You can see the previous poem here