Jones Irwin teaches Philosophy and Education in Dublin, Republic of Ireland. He has published original monographs on philosophy and aesthetics. He has published poetry most recently in Poetry London, Showbear Family Circus, Passengers Journal, Plainsongs, The Dewdrop and Cathexis Northwest Press. His creative nonfiction was also recently published in Kairos Magazine and his flash fiction was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize.
Artwork: Photography by Strixx Slade
Such low rent boys out on the dirt crime road eyes wide as tropical fish on heroin asses white as cocaine snow jeans cut way above the knee and purple strap dungarees never abandoned themselves to mere happiness on the edges of a dusty worn-out city recalcitrant to naïve expectation trickles of badly earnt sweat down the spine of their weird personalities worriedly tinkering with their protean identities some a good bit less than eighteen long delicate fingered hands skeletal but beautiful on their sharp hips loud mouths careless stripped of conceit expletives honest sacrilege on their ready lips scrawls in their eyes thinking who knows what circuitous shit like charwomen hanging out their morning sheets tossing back their heads in voiceless mirth who used to paint their fingernails and touch their peacocked tails outside the toilets in Burgh Quay in reckless view of the police service the guys and boys of the Dublin middle class mostly married or confused males some random human others on their lunch hour afterhours whenever was even worse or better week nights was always Angel Eyes sometimes alone sometimes Razzle too weekends a whole zoo more of every sight but these two were extra cute Angel six foot in stilettoes Raz for short just as a duo of funny poets who sees their native land a way the powerful of the country just can’t do not can never ever see it about nine inches and five feet both in pantyhose and tiny pencil skirts slender then wild with eyeliner a tattoo of an orange Algerian latrine on Angel’s chest shaven and moisturised each morning after while Raz didn’t even bother except for his pube hair Angel often think how much in love he was with Raz mentally way out there those sharp amber eyes somewhat dilated secretly hopefully in his heart that Raz felt vice versa both adored Apollinaire every lunchtime before punting again Raz and Angel would take a long tranquil philosophical walk along the banks of the river a shiver of anticipation between their thighs freedom in their minds it’s a game we like to play shout startled passer-bys where exactly is paradise why is paradise my father slightly bemused at their demeanour-banter but unjudging and somehow enjoying their flair perfectly coiffured multi-coloured post-punk hair coiffur being the phrase the subcultural expression the choice of fetish underwear for arrange one’s pubic hair without a hint of public fear imagine in Ireland of those ridiculous bizarre unprecedented unrepeated yearstheir rarity their daring darling as if in a queer banned book they’d smuggled in across the Anglo-water and first read then become a character instead used to arrest them awhile at the station off Harcourt Street take down their particulars photograph them as if the most putrid gone off kind of meat yet take real time to swap rumours or comedies or horror stories or personal mythologies underbellies of glamour in a particular togetherness very particular very together what fat Fianna fail politicians ugly bereft of charm or sex Wexford or Mayo Armagh or Waterford up for the game must have paid desperately before returning home to tell their knowing wives to keep these poor sexy proud hot gorgeous boys quiet hand over mouth the thought of the hapless on the hungover horn wealthy powerful punters from behind the whores calling all the angles and shots in the end the exquisite doggy tale tragedy dressed up as hidden and lucky necessity mouthful from the front their flaccid dicks needing enough attention to cure a putrid nation of at least one basic affliction one turns to yell a big throaty ‘thanks’ for the favours cash in hand no taxes although I’d never vote for you in an election your utter corruption and stupidity and fiscal policy twas the Minister for Finance gives me a steady erection sweetest feedback this public representative had had in a whole career of holes I’d write a book of poems he says the whore looking tasting feeling thinking gloriously like a she be it noted that watersports are out read my profile no mindgames no poo no pee y’see just baby somethin’ more genuine and real t’ feel
From the Editor:
We hope that readers receive In Parentheses as a medium through which the evolution of human thought can be appreciated, nurtured and precipitated. It will present a dynamo of artistic expression, journalism, informal analysis of our daily world, entertainment of ideas considered lofty and criticism of today’s popular culture. The featured content does not follow any specific ideology except for that of intellectual expansion of the masses.
Founded in late 2011, In Parentheses prides itself upon analysis of the current condition of intelligence in the minds of these young people, and building a hypothesis for one looming question: what comes after Post-Modernism?
The idea for this magazine stems from a simple conversation regarding the aforementioned question, which drew out the need to identify our generation’s place in literary history.
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By In Parentheses in IP Volume 7
32 pages, published 1/15/2022
By In Parentheses in Volume 6
56 pages, published 1/15/2021
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