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And When I Look Upon Your Face I Would That We Were In Some Place Where You Could Be My Pet - Flash Fiction by Kenneth Nolan

During the mid-sixties, I lived in a little town called Snarfleburg in southern Tennessee. I found a job there labouring in the Apple Mines. Snarfleburg was a backwater town at that time, and few people recognised me. It was custom and law in the town for every citizen to be ultra-polite and encouraging to their fellow man. Town folk would always greet me with abundant jolliness, and perhaps say something like: ‘I hope every step you take today Sir, will be a step towards justice and righteousness’, or—‘May your sperm be praiseworthy and impregnate the air we breathe’. Me, being of a slightly reserved, conservative nature would usually just acquiesce with a ‘Hello’.

The town charter stated the following: ‘All citizens must be polite at all times, regardless of current mood, personal circumstance, or given situation’. This law was enforced...


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The Negation of Nihilism by John Latham

“Capitalist production begets, with the inexorability of a process of nature, its own negation. It is the negation of the negation.” – Karl Marx cited by Engels, F. Anti-Dühring (1877)


The nineteenth century was an age of glorious optimism in the industrial nations. Liberals, anarchists and socialists thought that the future was a wonderful prospect. The Paris Commune had illuminated the imagination of rebels. Charles Darwin had liberated many people from superstition. Technology had developed fast. Grand ideologies like Marxism seemed to have coherence and the welfare state gained momentum in Germany. English hegemony over Ireland was on the wane. The patriarchy was also being questioned. But the twentieth century showed...

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Erotic Blackout: Flower - Erasure Art Blackout Poetry  - by Vanessa de Largie

Erotic Blackout: Flower - Erasure Art Blackout Poetry  - by Vanessa de Largie

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Hen Circle - Short Story by Augustus Sleeveen

The hen circle graces Francois’ Five Star restaurant at two pm, grey sweatpants and hoodies taking their places among suits and ties. Nobody tells them about the dress code or the specials. The street outside seems to darken as they take their seats.

Tabby starts. “Okay, now that we’re all here, does anyone have anything they’d like us to address?”

Phyl sticks her hand up, avoiding the passing CEO of fourteen cigarette companies by mere inches. He scurries away like a crab, his head bowed low. Tabby nods.

“What can we do, Phyl?” she asks.

Phyl throws her hands up...


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Cut Up on Copacabana by David Scott - Book Review by Frankie Gaffney

This review was originally presented in speech form at the book’s launch in Dublin, May 2018


It’s a great honour to be asked to speak about this book, which, like its author, is exceptional. I mean both David and his book are exceptional in the sense of brilliant—but also in the sense of very strange.

The text announces its weirdness from the outset, opening with a series of different dialogues, in which several different and conflicting explanations for the same set of scars on the protagonist’s chest are offered. There is no narrator, the reader is left to chase truth themselves. These playful verbal back and forths immediately call to mind the good-natured dominance...

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   “Anarchy in the UK: The New Underground Cinema”
     – Jett Hollywood
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Notes of a Professional Voyeur VII - Fiction Serial by Benny Profane

Tonight the bar is unusually quiet. Apart from myself there are only a couple of regulars who are sitting at a table in the corner of the room. Their sense of disappointment at the lack of people in the bar is obvious. They check their watches and sigh while puffing out their cheeks. Every now and then one of them will awkwardly shift their position in their seat.

These men have a curious type of companionship. They know each other from having met in the pub and they never see each other outside of their regular but unplanned meetings here.

Their first encounter was no doubt unremarkable.

I imagine it consisted of nothing more than a sly glance in the other’s direction and a quick ocular...


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Is Gardening for Guerrillas? by John Latham

There has been increased turmoil and panic in financial markets over the last week. By Tuesday, $4 trillion had been wiped off global stock marke

Is Gardening Really for Guerrillas?

Guerrilla gardening has been a thing for quite some time. People have been growing stuff on disused sites, unappreciated spaces and private property which does not belong to them. Enterprising and colourful as this may have been, are practitioners of this art urban guerrillas?
An urban guerrilla would actually be in conflict with a government. It is unlikely that an authentic urban guerrilla has much leisure time. Participant observation is not necessary to establish that the majority of governments have the capacity...

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Scum Gentry Poetry Hole
The Tale of the Suitors – From The Oddity - poem by Peter O'Neill

I


Is not the tale of the suitors nothing less
Than a story about a bunch of useless
would be motherfuckers,
The kind and type of being that we have all met
And known. Those wastrels who have no
Sense of self respect, not for themselves nor
For their own kith and kin, and so who would,
By such baseless birth and zero character,
Poison the very idea of hospitality,
And who would, rather than sweeten an
Hour with labour to earn their means,
Camp out in the grounds of another man
To squander his hard-earned earnings,
Eating and drinking his wife and son from house and home?



II


In an utterly futile attempt to lord it over both of them
Through their speech and rude posturing,
Egging each other along, as is the case with
All morons, aping and outdoing one another.


Oops, there goes another useless motha-fuka!
Parading around in Dicey O’Reilly’s domain.
Did you see the state of that SUV parked out front?
More chrome and polished silver than in a pimp


And whore’s bargain designer wear.
Nothing of much worth glitters so in thee my son,
So kindly refrain from even addressing me, or my family.


For shame, you crime out aloud by merely breathing!
Though in truth what should I expect from you,
You who have no parental figures, nor government, to look to.



Peter O’Neill is the author of several books, most recently More Micks Than Dicks, a hybrid Beckettian novella in 3 genres currently out of print, and The Dublin Trilogy: Poems & Transversions 1992-2017, a singular engagement with a 19th century French Master; launched in Paris in November last year to commemorate the 150th anniversary of Baudelaire’s death. He recently presented je la dis comme elle vient- The Appearance of the Homeric Muse in Beckett’s Comment c’est/How It Is at the How It Is Symposium organised by Gare Saint Lazare Players Ireland at the Centre Culturel Irlandais in Paris. He teaches EFL and resides in Dublin. His writing (be it poetry, translation, critical reviews or academic presentation) has been published widely, being translated into French, Italian and German. O’Neill has also edited two anthologies of poetry; And Agamemnon Dead ( mgv2>publishing, 2015) and The Gladstone Readings ( Famous Seamus, 2017). He set up Donkey Shots, an avant-garde literary festival, in his hometown of Skerries, North County Dublin, and currently hosts The Gladstone Readings.


https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/peter-o-neill-on-and-agamemnon-dead-an-alternative-collection-of-irish-poetry-1.2209523


https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/donkey-shots-2-poetry-comes-to-skerries-1.2652260



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Scum Gentry Poetry Hole
Chastity Belt - poem by Luiza Furtado

I wear a chastity belt
I know I’m going to hell
I locked it up myself
And threw the key into that well.


I’ll save men from my shame
Whilst hiding my contagious passion
No one deserves to taste
Decaying flesh as ration.


The line below the waste
Is dangerous
Any men who enter these woods
Would have to be courageous.


The triangle door is protected
By small red leprechaun guards
Men come to then be ejected
From this land of blood and scabs.


The queen of rotten roars:
Nobody comes to the wetlands!
Her lips are lethal and gore
The venom spills from her glands.



Luiza, died Brazilian – born again Irish Poet. Writes dark poetry, confessional poetry and feminist poetry.

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