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

The Goddess of Pill and Plug - poem by Harley Claes

She wore metal draped upon her visage with a bullet born personality and a pocket full of religion. We worshipped her sin and posted dutifully as saints. As we were given by god our daily pay, for our loyalty. We paraded ourselves on the sexual horizon, and got so high on the divine we reeked eternally of celestial vomit. In the castle of god we ate macaroons with cannabutter and bathed in murky rosewater to cleanse our self of the day’s dealings. Kicking craving after craving till it expired on the tongue in the form of a tab. We preached fuck the feds like testimonial and got on our knees for a handful of capsules. Knowing nothing of the other than the holy mother Mary Jane and the devil China White pickin’ blossoms of blood. She snickers, ‘Welcome to the Junkie Manor, and have fun finding your way out.’



Harley Claes is a poet and novelist from Detroit, Michigan. The first publication by Harley Claes is a Poetry and Short Story anthology titled ‘Pity the Poetics.’ You can find some of her other work in Terse Journal and Anti-Heroin Chic. Her alternate ego, Lourdes Vega, has no birthplace. She was borne of the dirt and grime that is derived from experimenting with a little thing called trauma. They share no similarities. 

Twitter: @sunkissedgodles
Tumblr: @harley-claes
Instagram: @babybodhiisattva
Website: https://www.harleyclaes.com/



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In the Heart of a Saturday Afternoon - poem by John Grochalski

In the heart
Of a Saturday afternoon
He comes
Down the avenue
No modern day
Don Quixote or Walt Whitman
Battered leather coat
Gray greasy hair to his shoulders
A beard down to his chest
Ass hanging out of his stained brown pants
Hands shaking holding a fast food burger
Stopping in spots
To pick up and eat the lettuce and tomato
That have fallen on the pavement
As the multitudes
With their big plastic shopping bags
Huddled in their arms
Or faces buried in cell phones
Pass him their consumerist scorn
Part like schools of fish around him
All of them off to the next store and the next sale
Killing the weekend in a grand dull fashion
As he sets the burger on the ground
Hikes up his brown pants
Before sitting on the pavement
And finishing his meal by the dog shit and coke cans
As if a stately and regal gentleman
Passing these fleeting moments of the day
At a sidewalk café in Paris.



John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.



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This is My Life - poem by Mark McConville

Cocaine nightmares and hopelessness bind together,
To create a broken mind
And I’ve been sinking deeper into the abyss that I call depression
I can’t withstand the inner unhappiness and tendencies
I’m hooked on misery, serving up cocktails of pills to myself,
To try and drown out the unnerving memories.


She’s stuck in my mind like a splattered fly
Shovelling narcotics near the receptors
And my eyes flicker and I feel manic,
And mesmerised by daytime television for the first time
In my life.


There’s a man on there, saluting me for my actions,
As I climb this mountain in my head
It’s so high, I’m so high,
Looking outside this window,
Bellowing at fast cars and people fuelled on caffeine.


I sit back and begin to see dots
And faces of ugliness
I can’t begin to rationalise with myself,
I feel incomplete searching for the missing piece
Of the frame, of the puzzle, to click myself back into place.


I see nightmarish goblins now, showing their toothless mouths,
Their acid tongues and their sharp nails,
I’m frightened but also curious,
Do they bite?


I want to sleep away the poison and disconnect from unholy spirits
I want to be judged for my mental instability
And I fear I’m truly lost in isolation,
In a room with peeling paper and stacked up beer cans


This is my life.



Bio: Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist from Scotland. His work has appeared online and in print. He also loves to write dark poetry and fiction.


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