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.