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

In Submission - poem by John D. Robinson

She had me pinned
to the mattress,
twice my size and
I had no chance:
she removed her
upper clothing
and her huge
breasts fell towards
my face and then
she fell forwards
instantly, snoring
like a fucking
I took the
opportunity to
crawl out from
beneath her like a
dazed spider:
it was 4am, I drank
a beer from the
fridge, took a couple
of Marlboro’s and
laid it low for a
few weeks.

John D. Robinson is a UK poet: he has 3 chapbooks: ‘When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide’ (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2016)  ‘Cowboy Hats & Railways’ (Scars Publications 2016): ‘Damned Dirty & Dangerous’ with Ben John Smith (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2016) His work appears widely in the small press and online literary journals.

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White Bread - poem by Zachary Knox

    (partially lecithin)

through people’s disguises there lie
more heart than brain which is more
or less the same thing; they’re up in
arms again and demand change yet
become afraid when change came
why are you always too tall or too small
said the mad hatter; it’s really all a mind
over matter kinda thing, choose the
yellow or red brick road
it doesn’t change a thing
Dorothy’s already dead by suicide
at least that’s what the raven
said and reminded us that there
was no use running to kansas
it was already bled dry

* * *


Iowa paid for its soiled shit-
eating grin in Christian ordained
holy sin baked in Irish lice and
three blind mice that staked their
claims on Black Hawk’s land where
he ended up making his last stand
he cut his hair and wore the white
man’s petticoat; he killed a man
when he was fifteen but spoke
gentle even when he was saying
being threatening but what could
it mean for a savage to speak
civil when the white man
stained his hands with only
what was unholy and obscene
to their own native nature?

* * *

    (thiamine mononitrate)

the capitalist pigs just south of North Liberty
Iowa stewed in the gluttony of their mires
for they knew to wallow in shit and to
constantly masturbate was the current style
they laid in corners and conspired to
overthrow the farmer that denied them
more meals as he was often off in the
fields claiming he was only trying to
provide for his family; oh but the pigs
didn’t care for they lived in the wealth
of their denial and wouldn’t think twice
to eat him and his family without due
course or trial after all it was them that
slaughtered them all just another
casualty in the endless mile of
subjective history

* * *


stupid kids stared out from beady
eyes at an antique carnival ride
that was free after they paid their
entry; their stomachs twisted into
gymnast forget me knots as they stood
in the erotic store checkout line
to buy a feeling or the idea of
life attaining some kind of
second-hand meaning that
required them to spin the
Russian roulette wheel of life
and that pleasure or love was the
only thing worth stealing

* * *


life can't just be a doctor sticking
his finger or dick down my deep canyon
and asking me to cough once or thrice
life can’t just be a bottle of syrup mixed
with coke then what’s the problem he asks,
me did you not cum too? well yeah but
I just don’t feel good something builds
in my third eye watch close the anthill
is a sty that fuels the need to deceive

the believer that concedes
the defeat of the other world
despite of me I still can see
the tapestry outside the car
window; ah, I see he says to me, I know
what’s wrong, it’s a rare condition that
can end your life: too much thinking
can result in suicide you need to
get out more and drink with stranger friends

to numb the bowels of inner strife
some of the side effects are the symptoms
that you describe and a slighted
possibility that you might gain weight
but besides that it will set you
free if taken nightly

Zachary Knox’s poems have appeared in Ealain, Penny Ante Feud, and What Rough Beast. He lives in Fort Madison, Iowa and is currently working on his debut novel, “The Hallway”

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I Am (Not That Into Me, Either) - poem by Louise M. Hart

In Memoriam, John Clare (1793-1864)

I am Van Gogh’s emasculated ear
Severed to diminish feeling, I died before I became real
Comprised of stories no one wanted to hear
And rendered out of mode, like an old fashioned picture book
Disproportionate in words and imagery
When I speak, the herd turns its braying back
I blame them not, for my words would sound prettier
Where my mouth is gagged
By those who only hear words transcribed by waves
Which are fluid, loud and clear
Shedding emotions, like layers of translucent onion peel
I moo aloud, but no one replies
Thus, I sit alone in a crowd of crushing pain and fear
Raise my hand to my head and find that it has disappeared

Louise M. Hart is a writer and poet from the West Midlands. The author of 2 novels, “The General Paralysis Of Sanity” and “The Fantastical Flights of Emilia Gate”, her poems have been published in anthologies and online in “I am not a Silent Poet” and “ArtiPeeps.com”. She blogs at madscribedotme.wordpress.com and is an active Twitter user, where she tweets using the pen name, shunterthompson.

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