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

Celebrus Enigmatica - poem by Kofi Fosu Forson


Love letters, beguiling Apocrypha, mad days as your tenant.
In that housed hut we begged. Our bodies gymnastically coiled.
Feet on my chest, arms in the air, walking all over me as if fire
Were elemental. That this skinned structure, rib-caged, six-abbed,
Hairless, phallus figmentus could promote misery. Pleasure gained
Was subtraction of heat from cold, therein making flesh symbolic.


Casing of petals for my love. Not disease gathering blood leaves
Split from branches, our life hereafter. Dead as thieves pulled.
Phantasmagoria. Incorrigible at once, what was the heart attack
Found fortune in a beat, gigging of sound from pipes within walls
As we put into place broken limbs. Fell on separate beds, a room
Overlooking soldiers flags in hand, marching bears to hibernation.


The walk on – time when electric sounds permeated the cool.
Fanged faces having at the slit. Hot mouth, blue bulimic burning.
Is this desire? We are farming, burying hoes in sand. Up dig dirt.
Set these seeds within the cavity. Flowers thickening prefab sprout.
With tongue, greed. Isolation. Less couture, more sensationalism.
Love culture. Lead lust. Irrigation system, water from the heavens
Falls flush over wetness of your hair bush. Concentration. Kiss off!


Dominant pill, excessive flagellation. Wind tortures our mind to wake.
Celebrus enigmatica – This land carpeted feet, beauty birthed as book.
Luxuriousness, Gotha. Germaneness, Schopenhauer on your tongue.
Fallen leaves rustling. Perverted neighbors eavesdrop unapologetically.
Sexual discourse. The literally challenged run in a panic having heard
The word “Prosthesis”. Love incandescent. The Letter “O” upside down

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.

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Renewable Energy: Cora Sherlock’s Excellent Suggestion - poem by Kevin Higgins

“Over 15,500 human remains incinerated to heat UK hospitals over 2-year-period. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/healthnews/10717566/Aborted-babies-incinerated-to-heat-UK-hospitals.html #800babies #outrage @amnesty” – tweet by Cora Sherlock of the Pro-Life Campaign

We must stop giving it away for nothing
—our greatest natural resource—
the Department of Finance estimates
Tallaght Hospital could heat itself
entirely on foetuses properly burnt
in one of those state of the art
energy efficient furnaces that are
all the rage in Sweden.

Within the lifetime of this government
every hospital in the country could be fuelled
by the unwanted contents of visiting wombs.
The minority of cranks aside,
the average foetus would be delighted
to make this small contribution towards
society’s continued warmth.

And when the ban on contraceptive devices
is re-introduced; every last diaphragm,
IUD, cock-ring, and bit of rubber
ribbed for your pleasure incinerated
in a field outside Ballinspittle,
after a blessing by Mother Teresa,
(specially flown in from
the black beyond)
and the conception rate soars
back towards
the traditional twelve
pregnancies per lifetime, two thirds,
we estimate, resulting in terminations,
we can start talking
about the export market.

Economists say the uteruses
of the greater Dublin area alone
could light the living rooms
of a medium sized British city,
such as Bradford.

Education is key.
To get the lady parts of the country
conceiving as they’ll have to,
every pubescent girl,
on her fifteenth birthday,
will be shown her way around
the first twenty pages of the Kama Sutra
by a fully qualified curate
under the age of seventy.

This policy’s success
will abolish talk of deficits
and oil prices. Instead,
we’ll debate furiously
whether to blow our vast surplus
on a few thousand more
unemployed tin whistle players
with the hint of an English accent,
or free nose jobs and tummy tucks
for the wives of the wealthy—the biggest
plastic surgery project in world history
since NASA’s unsuccessful attempt
to build another Joan Rivers.

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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Everything Matters - poem by Elisabeth Horan

I told you once I loved you.
It matters somewhat now—
not because of how I feel,
but because I have to be there
when you die. I have to know
when you go. It cannot be
after the fact. The loss,
the noise, all distance
between. The memories,
which lose power, fade away:
gray scarves at cocktail
hour. You, are my keepsake.
I, a witness. A kindred
someone who knew your spirit;
Knew the words to write
of you. I will sit
beside, keep watch while
the grams drift away,
an angel arrives, the eyes
go inside, frozen fingers,
rigored cold in my
clamshell hands—warmer
than the bath I later take
alone, with your ghost,
who is funny, yet appropriate
and melancholy.
He doesn’t even care that
I’m a woman. A widow.
He holds me close
as I mourn you—dead,
yet something stirs
me, more... alive.

Elisabeth Horan is a poet and mom from Vermont. She is a messy minded feminist and ecobitch. She loves animals and nice people. @ehoranpoet

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