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The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media
The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media - Latest Content
Notes of a Professional Voyeur VI - Fiction Serial by Benny Profane

Slumped beside me in a heavy lethargic malaise is my sometime drinking companion George.

George is a gangly wisp of a man with an unchanging uniform and strict daily routine that you have to admire.

Measuring around 7ft nothing and weighing well below the appropriate accompanying figure as set out by the concept of Body Mass Index; George is all sinew, sag and sunken skin.

Under his perpetually blood-shot eyes rests two dark and heavy pouches. A grubby five o’clock shadow permanently gilds his emaciated face and

his un-lipped mouth holds within...


Literal McFeminism: Clickbait Corporatism in a Consumer Culture by Joseph Kaminski

The McDonalds Corporation did something bold for International Women Day, folks. You’d think a multi-billion-dollar industry would celebrate such an occasion by eliminating the wage gap between workers within their company, or better yet pay their workers an actual living wage. But no, McDonalds did something that is just about as real and sustaining as their product. 

Rather than opening the dialogue further on the topics of inequality and social normality within the world, the giant mega-corporation decided to really think outside the box on this one. McDonalds decided to flip their infamous Golden Arch iconography from an ‘M’ to a ‘W’. This, of course, represents the word “Women”. However, this is nothing more than a shockingly out-of-touch breach into the cringeworthy politics that the western...


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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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Tom Jones - Short Story by Kenneth Nolan

Tom Jones got a job in a sex shop in Sydney. A tiny shit-hole, situated in a seedy corner just off George Street near “The Railway Hostel” where he and I first met.

He was a Welshman, just like the singer Tom Jones. Tom hated the fact that he shared the same name and nationality as the legendary warbler. He preferred to be addressed as Tomas. I insisted on calling him Tom—sometimes I called him Delilah if I was trying to get a rise out of him. He liked to notify people that he was not “the real Tom Jones”, though he was one of the most real people I have ever met.

I lived in a house in Coogee with two lads from Liverpool named John and Paul, and a Scottish dude named Roderick. Tom moved in with us when Rod moved out. Tom was from Cardiff, and he spoke with a distinctly Welsh accent...


Tuath: Youth - E.P. Preview

The nightmare jazz—a psychedelic wink from cosmic grandfather fading in the vortex—deep-fried good ol’ Rock and RRrroll—vocals like Ian Curtis crooning through a black hole from some alternative universe where he never kicked the chair—ambience so soft and soothing it would curl up beside you and spoon you to sleep, only to shake you violently awake seconds later, gibbering through grinding amphetamine jaws about a past of lies and a future that could never actually exist... Just what the fuck does it all mean?

Why, it means Tuath have returned of course, with their latest traipse through the static electric madness of Tuath-ville population: zero plus infinity. It means Psychedelic Trip hop/Rock/Electronic/Ambient/Everything band Tuath have returned, with their new EP “Youth”...


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   “Someone’s Birthday” – Spudgun
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Luna, The Rise of a Bipolar Superhero -- parts 1 - 3 - Fiction Serial by Louise M. Hart

Part 1


Shelagh and Arthur scrambled over the cemetery gates. The moon cast menacing shadows on the ground below and beckoned them to cross the hallowed turf. They often visited the graves during daylight, but this was their first evening visit. Shelagh’s sturdy legs helped break her fall. Following her, Arthur crashed to the ground, like a bird stunned mid-flight, and began to whimper. “Don’t be such a babby,” Said Shelagh, irritation seeping into her colloquial speech.

At 16 years old Arthur was...


The Humiliation of the Underclass by John Latham

In the 1980s, the American sociologist Charles Murray argued that a distinct class was forming at the bottom of British society. From a New Right perspective, he claimed that welfare dependency had set in amongst the “underclass” and this was encouraging poor behaviour. However, the intellectual tendency to look down on unfortunate people has a long history. Even the revolutionary Karl Marx described the lumpenproletariat in unflattering terms. Nowadays, we have the less cerebral Jeremy Kyle to put us in our place. This glib mockery may entertain some viewers, but is it time to defend the way many of us appear to get by?

The urban studies expert Richard Florida paid tribute to the role of the affluent creative class in post-industrial societies. He reasoned that tolerant values were useful in cities where tech flourished...


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Scum Gentry Poetry Hole
Movie of the Week of a Flying Sex Women - poem by Peter Marra

haunted nursery rhymes
slowly strumming with patient measure
vision mental (including psychosomatic) taste of her juices

at 4 a.m.
           she buried the pistol in the bayou mud
sweat blood
           smell stickiness
underneath her black painted fingernails

she avoided the cops without risking rehab
her grime was upstaging the law and order
with her legs spread, time doesn’t change
this film is heroin. sniff it and suck it. snuff.

voodoo sex is better
generates sounds that you can stomp heaven with

she held the shape of his glistening face
close to her heart revealing his perfect cries
she was stretched further than she had been preserved
a fist clutched gently around her prize

the July moon was drawn out long in a sky
translucent and still breathing

slowly as she patted the dirt down
slowly twirling under the black moon dive
she tasted her lips so salty so pure

the radio moaned scratchy music
           (poor reception in the swamp)
wearing a long leather tail
           her muscles ached
she didn’t recognize her actions anymore
           she showed way too much cleavage
sucking in the wet air of hot mongrel dreams
cruising the borderline lapping at brackish water

slip into bed deep red lips and nails

he was far away from the finished basement
           where she bled
           and the new kitchen where she fed
the spouse was gone
           only remnants left
licked powder residue from her hands
           sulfur nitrates
knives as aphrodisiac the libido frozen

the bayou begged for release

hand rubbing over hand
a walk in the dark area of desire
           no claims on life
hurried the psychedelic,
still covered in fresh people
           revealing his perfect cries

little of her blood in the mumbled pleasures
over his pathetic orgasm,
voodoo spells for a cure-all

“let's hump, never tried heroin.”

totally unable to satisfy her sexually

raw H mainlined burned electric
           don’t need him forever
           she’s innocent and naughty
           touch a mainline

she photographed every move:
the blood blossomed in the syringe water
           his slow o.d.
           his face floating under water
the slow drink of bourbon she enjoyed later on
           an atomic blast between her legs
           and she climaxed as she watched Nagasaki
           a debut feature-length

she’s just a creation of charms and amulets
true rituals are held as a last resort
start shaking for the Super-8

study correlations between guns, a systematic reconstruction
of pistols, submachine guns, and assault rifles,
from linguistics, from cognitive science,
before the marriage, is there a heart to save?

From Peep-O-Rama: Sins of the Go-Go Girls

Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the misuse of love, the curse of secrets, the pain of victimization and the impact of multi-obsessions sexual and otherwise. He is in love with the Three Mothers that sprung from the hallucinations of Suspiria de Profundis by Thomas de Quincey. He has been scarred by his past quests into the pits of Sin & Flesh in NYC’s East Village and Pre-Disney Times Square and he has been manipulated by trash culture and fine art. The bastard child of the films of Roger Corman and Russ Meyer, Peter has had over 300 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals.

Originally from Gravesend Brooklyn, he lived in the East Village, New York from 1979 to 1993 at the height of the punk – no wave music – cultural rebellion.  His published works include approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) (Bone Orchard Press), Peep-O-Rama: Sins of the Go-Go Girls (Hammer & Anvil Books available through Amazon and Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) published by Writing Knights Press available through Amazon.

Author’s website: www.angelferox.com

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Scum Gentry Poetry Hole
Assail - poem by Luiza Furtado

It is hunting season.
Cover your ear
If you don’t want to hear
The loud bang around the city.
Oh, do you think I am out to catch deer?
Not really.
I am after the dirtiest beasts and awkwardest queers.

I will chain them with my legs...
They will enjoy it.
And then I will crack their necks,
I’ll make them extinct.
That is my venomous instinct:
Ephemeral flings.

The cracks in the skin conceal
An inner burning flame
Only the eyes can reveal.
The predator moves with lustful temptation.
There is nothing more pungent
Than the power of intention.

A scent rests on the nose:
The target is found.
I set my eyes on the prize now.
I shoot and get up close,
I bite him from behind.
He never saw what hit him
There was no time to realise.

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


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