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The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media
The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media - Latest Content
The Substitute - Short Story by Garreth Keating

On a dripping dirty day Miss Cummins was fighting for control of the bodies and souls of 1b and wondering if these bodies and souls were worth the fight. They were a pack of shitheads if the truth be told and not one of them would give her the time of day, neither in class nor outside in the real world.

“Fuck off, you Nazi bitch,” the boy shouted.

“I won’t fuck off for no commie,” the school girl screamed. “We’ll gas ya; We’ll gas you all.”

“Hey, you’ll be screaming in a higher tone of voice when we get into giving you the raping you deserve.”

“That’s the only way you could get any. Is it because you...


It's Russia Against the West Again and Ukraine Loses - Political News and Reporting by Zack Breslin

To many observers, international politics can be explained principally by competition between rival powers. Nation states compete with each other in the pursuit of their national interests and where one state makes a gain, another makes a loss. It is a simplified and somewhat crude way of looking at complex interactions where many factors are in play. That being said, there are times when the framework of outright competition between states is central to an understanding of events. The current situation in Ukraine is one of those occasions.

We are witnessing one of those rare junctures in international politics where rival great powers are engaged in a stand-off...


Outsider Art Gallery

Warm Nightmare - Pencil and Ink - by Manz DeFio

   “Warm Nightmare” – Manz DeFio                     View More...


Graffiti - Flash Fiction by Emmaleene Leahy

There’s a new security guard on tonight. I might get in. I slam my fist against the glass.

“Little pig, little pig, let me in.”

He scratches at his short beard and takes a few steps towards me, then turns and stares at the phone on his desk. He scratches his head and writes something down in the logbook. They mustn’t have told him about me. He’s not going to let me in. I know.

Shiny new buildings stand in a line like moored ships, their reflections ripple along the river at their feet. They are ghost citizens waiting for death.

I pull up my hood and move away from...


Tesco Everyday Value Spanish White Wine - satirical Wine Rating by Laurence Vougiouklakis

“Uncomplicated wine, great taste.” These words are printed in green ink upon the rectangular tower of white recyclable cardboard, the carton that houses this litre of cheap Spanish wine that I’ve been called to write about. I have been appointed the futile task of trying to explain to you its gentleness, its deceptive tang that I’ve been raving about to anyone within earshot over the past few days in the village. The explanation offered on the carton, of course, is a comical understatement: for uncomplicated, read strange; for great, read overwhelming.

Now, join me: I pick up the carton and I bounce it about in my hands, I turn it on its side and caress it with tender strokes like I would the naked hip of a Dutch whore...


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   “Scum TV Broadcast” – Victor Mollocks            View More...


The Thong Bearer - Short Story by Peter O'Neill

I had a wonderful morning this morning. I woke up at 5.20 and I did my exercises, as usual, before going for a run on the beach. The sky was truly Homeric, rosy fingered dawn. The beauty of the scape was simply staggering. I stopped running after a while, just so that I could appreciate it all the more. In fact, so compelled was I by the beauty before me that I started walking into the sea, after first taking off my runners and rolling up my leggings. The water felt so good that I actually felt like getting in. This is Ireland I am talking about, the Irish Sea, scrotum tightening. But, I actually started seriously thinking about it.

When I looked behind me, I noticed a woman, I think, staring out at me. She must have understood what I was thinking of doing, and possibly wanted to watch me swim! But when...


Ode to a Rotten Morning - Editorial Commentary Article by Dragoon Babic

Shiver-me-limber. It’s morning again and I’m cold. This blanket is tucked around me like the skin they wrap around sausage meat. My arms are clenched tight to my chest and I am all of a sudden conscious of the lack of warmth in my right ear. It’s cold. It’s dark-winter-morning cold. My exposed extremities are desperate for the warming embrace of a sympathetic soul. A parent or a lover who might provide a less traumatic transition from dreams into reality. Someone who could rub my blood warm. Instead I wake up to the morning felicitations of this dank and dreary room; coughing with a suffocation brought on by the primordial patches of damp that have enveloped the walls. The smell of it fills my nostrils and leaves a dry itchy sensation at the back of my throat...


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Scum Gentry Poetry Hole
Trilogy - poem by Laurence Vougiouklakis


You ask me who she is, for the name of this, my,
Licensed by petulance, her keen eyelashes
Seem, especially at night, to assume the coherence
Of algebras, trigonometries.
Her name is Fortunata, harbinger of such symphonies
The likes of which
You’ve never heard; rejoice! rejoice!
For right now she carries to us a basket of pears.


There have been voices, always, in the House of God
And the Marketplace, speaking ill of sloth
Condemning profligacy with cold spittle.
I was baptised in the hedge growth, crepuscule;
Where sirens sang, storm signals signalled night
A cluster of girls returned up from shore
All of the world’s misery and beauty there
As I played cards in the belvedere;
Forty Thieves and Solitaire.
Leering deeply into the past, wishing it may recur,
One never knows what the symbols represent
Until they are shattered into shards


To die whilst one is dreaming: O! holy night!
Bring me six huge pillows,
Bring me a satin rug, rosary beads, switch on the
I will reflect on rainy embraces,
Back-alley smoke.
I see the universe as an inverted dream,
A bubble of fond and tender folly;
My knuckles tremble.
The whores are dancing outside my
Frosty window, singing hymns of castigation,
“No more kisses, no more at all.”

To die in one’s twenties seems bold,
All that blood, those bones, the flesh and cells,
They really did exist after all, and it’s such a pain now
To hear laughter and traffic.

So send me to your prison,
Wrap your cuffs around my wrists and shave my
Peasant’s head
Lock me in your concrete box, I’ll send for a Bible.
The train I ride is hidden,
It cuts through time,
Its passengers blink at catastrophe, they wince at
I travel light, I tread lightly
Through preposterous darkness.
I am ravaged by illusions,
I flatter the Angel of Death with deceit,
You will not reach me now.
There are things to do before one dies
Or so it seems,
But what of this foretold pestilence?
What was your part in it?
Fury conveyed in oils,
The famine of the heart;
Night has fallen,
Come and see.

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Scum Gentry Poetry Hole
The Stain - poem by Peter O'Neill

For Wilkys Weinhardt, after Augusto Dos Anjos

Insane synthesis of aural pyrotechnics and putrid content needed;
Yet sadly, and strangely, lacking here... Rather, sweetened, all
Too sweetened scent of mild corruption caused by cow dung—
Though a bucolic aroma, mind. No maggot infested carcass, rich
With the fat, thumb shape of pupae rotting in the midday sun,
The bloated Havana’s to be found above Lough Corrib, filled
Like puss injected éclairs, all ghoulishly swimming about
In the liquid, fetid matter, which, for Christ sake, don’t step in!
There, that oozing mass of Dijon, whose caustic odour tears
At your very lungs, infecting them with their all consuming
Squalor, causing the scarab to dance, the centipede to multiply
In many legged, convulsive, and undulating shapes.
There now, a rich and poisonous metaphor for the last 20 or so years,
One to cause a stain like an excruciating and painfully delivered stool.

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