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The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media - Latest Content
Pussy on the Mark - Short Story by Jeff Bagato

Stolen stories translated into new language—a language never before spoken—never to be spoken—the unspoken present time. Immediate words exist before signs. All language is past time. All past time is dead time. Language of past is language of future. Pussy is the language of the present. Pussy is a language of stolen words that are no longer words.

This is the story of Doom Pussy and the war against cock time language.

Staying in Touch

Doom Pussy settles in at the bar between Nails and Smash, accepts the drink they immediately offer.

“‘Bout time you got here.” Nails slurs his words ever so slightly. “We was just thinking about moving to the next bar...


Ad hominem, esquire: by Joseph Kaminski

Ad hominem, esquire:

Professional unprofessionalism in today’s methods of online interaction and the sociopolitical echo chamber of social media

With social media usage at an all-time high, the opinionative nature of mankind is now broadcasted across the world at the mere click of a button. Nowadays, just about anyone with access to technology can be heard by the entire world. People go ‘viral’ thanks in part to a hive-mind-styled, systematic internet. If something is mildly interesting, funny, or informative it has the potential to be blown out of proportion...


Outsider Art Gallery
The Room of the Sadistic Chimeras - Digital Collage - by Vesperalia

The Room of the Sadistic Chimeras - Digital Collage - by Vesperalia

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Le son De - Short Story by Jim Meirose

Doctor Sax sat waiting for Stannie with four and a half minutes to go. Idly he sat watching the fast ping-pong game his apprehension regarding this lesson had conjured to distract him. Identical faceless players volleyed the ball super-intensely so that it could not be seen even as a blur, but only as nothing at all. The super-speedy ping-pong paddles driving this phenomenon necessarily vanished from view as well and in moments the players themselves realized they had been playing so well that the point had been reached where the game had been played so perfectly that it had reached a level of perfection beyond the maximum a ping-pong game could ever be, so; since they had played the game completely out of existence, they dropped their arms, stepped away, and, there being no further reason for a ping-pong table...


Confessions of a Reluctant Anarchist by Michael Andoscia

I have to admit to a certain squeamishness when asked about my political affiliations. Part of this is due to the fact that my political beliefs are, at least as far as I am concerned, complicated. Another variable is that I’ve never been a joiner. Group dynamics have always made me uncomfortable because, very often, the consciousness that develops within the group conflicts with my individual consciousness to which I always defer. I also don’t like to be pigeonholed. I don’t want assumptions to be made about what I believe and what I support by virtue of my group assignation. I like to make up my own mind based on the available evidence.

“So, you ARE an anarchist!” one of my students exclaimed.

He was telling me that there was a rumour...


Scum Gentry TV

   “93 Greene”                                                     – Bryan Higby
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Dumpster RabbittZ part two - Fiction Serial by Bryan Higby and Ricky D. Snyder

Read Part One Here

Chapter Two

Rob Wash removed a joint from between his thick brown lips as he ran one calloused hand through his graying nappy hair watching those two fellas, John Friend and the local DJ cat, Randy Bliss, push open the front door to The Bateman. It wasn’t often that Rob lit the weed inside but tonight his arthritis was acting up something furious. He was going to need a toke or three off that strong weed to finish mopping the lobby floor. He watched the two white dudes waiting at the elevator, took two puffs...


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...


Scum Gentry Radio
Scum Gentry Poetry Hole
Galloglaich - poem by Daniel Wade

Wealth of my wayfaring and mud-smeared,
The halberd slashes off necks at the root
For mounting over hearths; blood rinses my beard

Of the day’s trudge. Breathing hard, I slog about
This field, corpse-carpeted, air smudged in silence,
Lifting keepsakes from pockets, flames put out

Of my sword’s iron lightning, brandished headlong
And notched. The sun sinks to its nightly grave
As crows swoop down on haggard wing

To munch eye, gnaw jowl; heaven’s amber glows
A still-warm breastplate, as bodies burn on-site.
Why do I no longer flinch from decomposition’s fizz

On each dead, staring face? Indifferent to frostbite
I’ve had the run of ditch, glen, valley, borough;
No enemy may slip from my smell or sight,

Lying in ambush at Antrim, charging Knockdoe
Hillocks, limbs sweat-sopped. Their anthems whirl
In my ear, their pyres conjure up ashen shadow.

I won’t be swayed by priestly pleas for my soul,
Nor fall at the feet of some perfumed pontiff
To beg clemency, yank at God’s apron-string. I’ll

Sleep through a drab sermon, that dives like a dove
To catch in the bishop’s craw, to persuade
Me to defect from my warring self.

Because, from what do I need salving? The road
Where the death blow misses me by inches?
The yesterdays, the tomorrows? Yoked neither to God

Nor home soil but a chieftain’s bidding, I am
Scriptured in this life of palisade and charge,
Ground-holding and glassy rock to dam

Fords in hurdle. As for the cavalry, they call
My name as if I were commonage to rack or rent,
Or one of their hunting bitches called to heel

While I cut and run across their continent;
Repeated axe-bashings splinter apart
Meadows of frozen water and the dent

In my skull taps bone like a glass clinked
To health. Price my loyalty. I flee from no
War-heat; better always to die in the face

Of a javelin’s lunging hiss, or retreat through
Underbush where armoured horse can’t follow,
Than kneel before a blood-blind banner.

Hoist no monument for me. Let my grave vanish
Under the steepened sky. Hold my name from ever

Passing your lips. Let my bones sink back to ash.

*meaning ‘foreign warrior’, anglised as ‘galloglass’.

Daniel Wade is a poet and playwright from Dublin. In January 2017, his play The Collector opened the 20th anniversary season of the New Theatre, Dublin. His spoken word album Embers and Earth, available for download on iTunes and Spotify, launched the previous October at the National Concert Hall. A prolific performer, Daniel has featured in festivals including Electric Picnic, Body and Soul, Culture Night and the West Belfast Festival. Daniel was the Hennessy New Irish Writing winner for April 2015 in The Irish Times, and his poetry has appeared in over two dozen publications since 2012.

Website http://danielwadeauthor.com/
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/dan_wade_91/
Facebook http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?i...
Spotify https://open.spotify.com/album/1c9AbP...
Youtube https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCk2n...
Apple Music https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/emb...

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Scum Gentry Poetry Hole
Half-Dressed - poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Half-dressed, walking in traffic
and talking to herself. She danced
and sang as the authorities arrived.
She was close to being roadkill.

Sitting half-naked in the squad car
she gestures with her hands and
fingers as if shooting a small gun.
She screams out with pleasure.

“Bang, bang, I shoot you.”
She was a little drunk.
Smiling to herself, she
exposed one breast.

She kissed the squad car window.
She laughed out loud to herself.
She was a little high.
She was in a lot of trouble.

She had only one shoe on her feet.
Her left barefoot was bruised.
She called the authorities pigs.
Her eyes filled with tears.

Her half-naked body was covered
with a blanket. She was trembling
in the back of the squad car.
She asked, “Where are we going?”

She said she would not listen to
what they had to say. She formed
a kiss with her lips and then she
started to laugh. “Bang, bang”

Half-dressed, she could not recall
how she got so indiscreet.
So out of reality, she was taken
to the psych ward and held there.


Luis was born in Cuernavaca, Mexico, He lives in Southern California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles CA. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His other poetry books and chapbooks have been published by Alternating Current Press, Deadbeat Press, Kendra Steiner Editions, New Polish Beat, Poet's Democracy, and Ten Pages Press (e-poetry book).

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