By Jones Irwin

Let me tell that tragi-comic tale once more the fast-talking shower of queers no words just desires and drives wasn’t Moira the queen of them gangsters worser she was they said especially in that King-sized bed of hers through the long bleak Seventies she kept a feral house of strays and had no qualm with seeing a few slip away if necessary wasn’t she meant to have popped old Grisly Irish Raymond with her very own hands they say she finished him with a claw hammer bashed his ugly brains out all over the bar table the commotion spilling the gang’s collection of beer into the interstitial space of O’Hara’s exposed frontal lobes looked like a Pollock or worser a Freud Francis Bacon laughed in the Coach and Horses after in between gin martini pints this bunch of neo-Action Painters made startling order out of supposed chaos in Soho even if to the untrained eye it looked a mess nothing boring anyhows ain’t that right gangsters are sure vivid Moira loved it lapped up the minutes and the bloody seconds of evil excitement their trembling fear her power her pleasure getting her sexy long stockinged legs over the prettier Eton Harries that chunky long leopard skin coat as a signature no years in domestic hell or the clink for her myriad extortion or murder cases taken out well before they got anywhere near somewhere like court crooked cops death’s sister suppose you could file her under sociopath going way beyond the individual with her set of intersubjective cronies a whole Middlesex mini universe of cut-throat this and that hard against the loftier values sown into the fabric of post-War life iconoclast then though not sure she or hers stand for anything or if there was an underlying project of any kind other than greed and mayhem from the very get-go probably kicked-off with that Clacton-On-Sea heist which went badly wrong and they had to finish off the bravely resistant postmistress who had already seen too much now we have all seen way too much but these days there can be no going back flashing her bristols was Moira do you ever wonder she asked where the bodies go the liquid slap of the head as they died one last oh so sorrowful sound sigh that incongruous stare without any care not even looking over her shoulder I tryin’ hard shoot elsewhere suggested the countryside anyhows I’d been thinking more about the souls after death like out somewhere in the sticks nah fool boy she said not there where then her bristols all pricked up now like she was gettin’ extra-excited in her deep V you were lost you could well see she had plenty of what it took really don’t knows where why does it matter nowhere maybe she laughs where’s that baby that hot red lipstick made her lips Satanic nowhere did exist I had been there years before I remembered the dark place more sweaty than rock n’ roll fever music deeper and scarier she was biting the quiver on her lower lip now wanna be lovers she asked Moira I said yea sure worst decision ever woman means you no harm her other boyos had said a soft spot there not to be believed could show you the snuff video tapes if I was allowed to keep ‘em lucky to be still alive only cos I kept my mouth shut pusface plus eyes past is no window only a painting you gotta interpret or last night’s performance you gotta forget I was never very good at sleeping soundly or at understanding pure malice weak me eh so off you go East London mate out towards Plaistow so as to read the concrete biblical prose there you can read the graffiti smells like piss at least it’s real at least it is real like evil carnal learn your life lesson then move on if you possibly can then again maybe trouble never wants to move on maybe you cannot highlight the survivor bit won’t let yourself remember Gisèle that woman what happened her hate has its reasons also Laima from Lithuania not Vilnius but Kaunas the smaller second city some faces you cannot ever forget disappeared one night by Moira and by her men we all knew the worst kind of slowly delayed end that one gave me running nightmares pregnant remains on a bonfire what could we do didn’t find out until after of course ‘wise intervened  

About the author

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, Cathexis NorthWest and Tofu Ink Press. His creative fiction was also recently published in Kairos Magazine, The Decadent Review, The Festival Review, Into the Void, Mignolo Arts, Wild Roof Journal and Critical Read and his flash fiction was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize. His vision is of a postmodern existentialist, with a dash of noir mixed in with a progressivist ethic.

He is also currently preparing a book on existential themes, to be published with Routledge, London in Summer 2021.

next up...

What I Remember

By Jente Posthuma, Translated by Sarah Timmer Harvey