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The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media
The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media - Latest Content
I Have a Terrible Desire to See Your Waste Disposal Facilities - Flash Fiction by Dermot O'Sullivan

Why are we so ardently attracted to the waste disposal facilities of other human beings? Or at least the holes: mouth-hole, nipple-hole, asshole, vagina-hole or cock-hole. It seems not to matter. With some negligible exceptions, we only truly like to suck on areas of the body that may at any moment leak some unpleasant fluid onto our tongues. Any section of the body that does not fulfil this prerequisite is deemed unworthy of our attention. What strange creatures we are!

In fact, so pronounced is our species’ preference for holes that we consider those who do not share this strange perversion to be perverts themselves. Think of the Peeping Toms, the toe-lickers, and knee-suckers of this world. We reserve for them nothing short of disgust. Indeed, we castigate them for their nauseating habit of nibbling upon feet, while we calmly and joyfully...


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Dan Riley - Walk the Other Way - EP Review

Dan Riley is a man of many talents. Not only is the Lancashire-born troubadour a poet of some renown—having found a platform for his work in publications as sophisticated and widely admired as this one—he’s only gone and dropped a five-track EP of easy-listening alternative folk and smooth pop-rock that’s pretty much all hits and no misses. And the whole thing’s available for you to listen to immediately. Well shucks, this must be your lucky day.

Evocative of a host of great forebears from The Beatles through Pink Floyd and John Martyn, “Walk the Other Way” is a pleasing traipse through summery emotions with Riley’s earnest, crooning vocals running the gamut from plaintive and introspective to hopeful and energized, but always imbued with a vigorous, pleasantly-contagious optimism. Here’s a man who...

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Outsider Art Gallery
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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War Machines and Chicken Farms - Flash Fiction by Michael Duda

There’s always been rumors about it. You’ll read them in any newspaper or you could listen to about a million plus one channels about it. But now, this happens. Who shot first? The pictures just show smoking grey metal and a sunny roundel bobbing up and down on salty foam waves in the South China Sea like smiling grandparents not aware that they’re about to take a drop on a county fair rapid rivers thrill ride.

The Boy reads an internet article that’s popped up out of the digital vacuum: Volunteers Expected, Draft Recruitment to Follow Soon. Who wrote this? It’s probably some kind of electronic mortar that glues popular conspiracies together. The text claims that those who don’t volunteer will have worse assignments. Much worse. This is the kind of thing someone wearing tin-foil...

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Mindfulness: a Postmodern Form of Procrastination by John Latham

There is a consensus that procrastination is negative. We live in an era where productivity is celebrated. When grand metanarratives like Marxism are widely scorned, the idea is that workers should put in long shifts. The call for work-life balance is seldom heeded as the British economy continues to underperform.

Nonetheless, the trouble caused by overwork has not escaped the attention of the state. People are often diagnosed with stress or related mental health issues. What’s left of the National Health Service is having to pick up the pieces. Furthermore, the DWP is obliged to deal with lots of people who have been unable to keep up with the excessive demands of their employers. Unfortunately, there has been insufficient emphasis on helping people to recover. The pressure to get people back to work is often perceived...

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   “Someone’s Birthday” – Spudgun
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Next to the Last Stool - Short Story by Jim Meirose

Yes; went in, sat a while, had a few—and this guy came and claimed the last empty stool. It’s really okay and nothing to sit close, rubbing elbows with strangers, in a place like this. Just pay no attention, don’t hear what he orders, just sit thinking. As quick as he came it’s like he’s all gone, but then, after having a few, and some more, to get settled, he opened his mouth and spewed and overflowed out of his personal space.

—so, okay. Here goes; I know that—hey bartender. Straight vodka—

Straight vodka? Sure. Drank straight vodka long ago, right from the bottle. Not ashamed to say it. Blackouts were just, well, things that happened once in a while in the environment. That time and place way, way back. You know—the place brought me up. Taught mind your own business, too. Most times...

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Tuath: Youth - E.P. Preview

Fresh from the nuclear fallout of last week’s yearly feast-day of being drunk and Irish—frenetic Letterkenny punk-rockers “Lunch Machine” come out all guns blazing with the video for their latest track, the appropriately named “Paddy”. Filmed at 2am in the morning after the day in question and published online immediately, this chaotic frenzy of cramped late night sessioning is a pure and beautiful testament to the art of gonzo film-making. You can practically smell the booze fumes radiating from your screen.

Have a look and listen and then be glad the madness is over for another year...


“Paddy by Lunch Machine”...

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The Outsider - poem by Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon)

The evening of staggering drunks, he is after hangdog,
Weasel-faced streetwalkers.
Whom he points his carved stick at,


or whom he stigmatises with his finger on the bare skin,
they will not be disgusted ever again by the touch of his rigor mortis,
but in the following days,
horrendous leprosy-like blotches will cover the entire body it will rot,
through the thinned bones,
skull the size of a bird’s head will be handed over untouched by the furnace of the incinerator.
Wherever he appears—in a black mask, wrapped in a shabby cloak; children disappear without a trace.


The outsider is the satyr of abandoned playgrounds “all he needs now is a scythe in his hands”
Now next to the graveyard he carves mysterious
figures in the sacred decay of parched mud.


Flower heads, heavy as stone, are tied up with rusty wire,
its heads still touching the earth; yellow, ropy leaves scattered on the soaked earth, trampled pathway like varicose veins.
Abandoned playgrounds famished satyr,
following through the unusual strength of the light of the moon,
he is after the staggering drunks, weasel-faced streetwalkers.


The deep green waters part the surface,
soon the islands drift together: patches of mould
fluorescent its green colour,
soon to become scale like core, solid filthy—hgreen samara.
A mysterious print, in the drying up mud of the graveyard.



(Translated by Johanna Semsei)



Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Earlier books: (szellem)válaszok, A Nap ás Holderők egyensúlya . New: Kiterített rókabőr. Known as a spiritualist medium who explores the relationship between magic and art.


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We're All Missing Our Letters  - poem by James Diaz

why the long way around
                                        and maybe not just this one time
wrapped tiny against that warp in the woods
                                                                      holly-hills singing
lost little dear
            I know each thing that burns          I
feel it too
               skin deep
the bone                 the neon sign
missing a few letters           we’re all missing something
                                    if I could I surely would
little darlin’ here’s the patch where my heart went through
   spun wide against the window
                                                    you lean and smoke into
like there’s no screen at all between      here and everywhere you’ve been
how many dark highways    and      gas station bathroom doors
                                     locked tight
Livin’ takes and takes oh taker I got those blues too      I just wish you’d believe me
when I say           it’s alright        to let the damn thing chew a bit off the ends of us
we’ll grow new limbs            you’ll see so much      that the dark keeps hid
it ain’t pretty       but       it ain’t so ugly either



James Diaz is the author of This Someone I Call Stranger (Indolent Books, 2018). He is founding Editor of the literary arts & music mag Anti-Heroin Chic. His work has appeared most recently in Occulum and Philosophical Idiot. He lives in upstate NY and occasionally tweets @diaz_james. 



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