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The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media
The Scum Gentry New Poetry Magazine, dark poems and poetry online.

The Independent Thought of Dirk Zimmerframe PhD MSG - poem by Kevin Higgins

after W.H. Auden


When his hair fell out
he bought a hat with sleeves,
now wears it everywhere, even in the shower;
began shuffling into rooms dragging
after him the ruins of an acoustic guitar
in the hope of being mistaken
for James Taylor. Morning
of his fifty fourth birthday he went rattling
down the motorway
on a penny farthing bicycle
he had specially constructed
because a bloke at a bus stop the previous night
convinced him they were back in fashion.


When a human-seeming head attached
to an officially sanctioned jacket so instructed,
he duly put on his Caftan
and sweated off several pounds
worrying about Russia; when it was Iran
he gawped down at the sandals
he first wore to look vaguely Nicaraguan
and had about that
the maturest thoughts
in his head’s history.


Though when politically necessary
he still pretends to be against
war, homelessness, and rape;
unlike you, he never
lets his idealism wrestle
and pin his inner bar-room bore
to the tell-all miserably carpeted floor.



Kevin Higgins’s Song of Songs 2:0 - New and Selected Poems will be published by Salmon Poetry in April. His poems have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Times (UK), The Independent, and The Daily Mirror. The Stinging Fly magazine recently described Kevin as “likely the most read living poet in Ireland.”



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In Chelsea the French Kiss like Ballerinas - poem by Kofi Fosu Forson

Vanessa for the years. A caption would read—Disentanglement.
Leg of it predator supposing an undertaking come up from filth,
Like laundered sheets after menstrual cycle. Ninotchka Madam,
If in a garden, tulip or else demoiselle. Heartbreak, his command.
How it roped her into coil. Pull he did a thread. She and this Toro
Charged along thundering streets in twilight. Egoyan with camera
Would have kept up, followed them side-winding. Romantic push.
Hubris and harmony. Sex and politics. Many an intrigue begot a
Controversy. Lands apart. Those years. What she had accumulated
Served him best as dissertation. In those closed quarters, leaved,
Grassy, wild-bushed with trees over wine, conversations. Hint at
Chiaroscuro, lit glassed-candles reflected whiteness, Klimt’s Vienna.
Darkness. Hallowed country, a city governed by theft. Night’s reign.
Howling voices at pitch discernible as prison gore. Measured path
To door. Trajectory gave him impulse to have at body, enamored.
Rapture of which brought them close in a kiss. Arabesque. Chagall.
Autumn is the soliloquy in between pillar positioning of spring and
Winter. Summer, the fuck or fight scene. That it was, acknowledge-
Ment, touching of gloves or assuming positions. Somehow perfor-
Mance merits a juxtaposition. Inherently their tremulous indecision
Matched the circumstance of him making an exit and she bargaining.
No longer put asunder, one evening after bad cinematic experience,
They formed figure on bed in so many ways. Master class having
Culminated, partaking in sensations from roast, a serenading then.
Where most exacerbate and terminate, theirs was commencement,
Love indefatigable. Parisian neighbor, “Avec amour! Avec amour”!



Kofi Fosu Forson has written and directed plays for the Riant Theater. His collaborations include Gender, Space, Art and Architecture, a video project, Liverpool, England and Dismember the Night, thread poetry and photography project, Tribes Gallery, NYC. As writer and poet he has published with Three Rooms Press and Great Weather for Media, Maintenant 10, Anti Heroin Chic, Full of Crow Press, Flapperhouse.
www.kofosu.blogspot.com



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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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