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

The Brunch People - poem by John Grochalski

The brunch people
Are lining Saint Mark’s Place
On an early Sunday afternoon
The brunch people women wear cute little dresses
And the men wear polo shirts with the collars up
They are named Becca and Staci
Todd and Blake and Kyle
And they are as boring as a parade on the Fourth of July
The brunch people play on cell phones
Or talk about banal things like Taylor Swift music
And the national football league
Their voices sound like honking cars in traffic
And they never worry about hunger or war
The brunch people giggle
Because they are drinking mimosas with champagne
Before one o’clock in the afternoon
A few of them will be asleep by four p.m.
At least one Becca or Staci
Will vomit on the pavement or have to fight off
The advances of one of the Kyles
The brunch people love bacon and eggs
And specialty coffees that taste like mint
They love Starbucks and 7-11 and Dunkin
And watching from their rooftop pool parties
As people who’ve lived here for years
Get their asses thrown out on the street
The brunch people take the word gentrification as a compliment
They’ve started phrases “I’m not racist but...”
They were put on this earth to eat French toast
And destroy us as quickly as they can
The brunch people have college degrees
But they don’t have college debt
Most of them are heading toward thirty
And their parents still pay their rent
Mommy had to call Blake off from his job last Friday
Because he was hungover from
Too much partying with Todd
The brunch people laugh about the mundane
Throw their trash on the ground
And never really pay the cost for anything in this country
If you stopped one and asked them if they were human
I’m willing to bet you twenty dollars
Most of them wouldn’t know what
In the hell to say.



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.


View as page...

Room 18: Golden Ratios of a Flying Sex Women - poem by Peter D. Marra

she accepted a truth:
she was a peeping tom.
then she watched the window across the
airshaft


she pulsated while eating her sexual desire
between the probes of her mental state


she swirled the fluid in a delicate goblet
a mixture of bitter sweat and isomers of fragrant urine
with a touch of
                                tart membranes


swished it around her mouth
bathed her bleeding gums
then gulped
                                burn
        burn
gagged briefly. voluntary agent.

the window
grew larger as she backed away
she began to stroke. opened the noise
and walked into an answer


she began to stroke. opened the image
and walked into a reason


instructions were absent from the text.
she was trying to set up the head.
sexual desire. between them. to probe downwards.


she spied on me
and she spied on me
and she always will
and I’m glad


poses were going to happen
door closed
penetration
sex-bombing


she shook and began to speak of time
a plastic minute, think that’s too long?


her filthy mouth offered a humorous alternative
a half-life in this position


she said (the only transcript):


“coma 1. i was in him deep, almost up to my forearm.
That’s what he wanted. all sweaty.
he was all sweaty and clammy. i think i did something wrong,
i felt something give way. soft pop. i pulled out and left him there on the floor as a quivering pain pleasured jelly. i outlined his body with tiny black stones to mark the event.


tasty glistening cock.


clock tweaked faster. i fell into a deep sleep.”


“roundabout rooms—one starts
then ends in another. automobiles are always crashing
outside i can hear them through the stained glass. eyes
of the saints are teary moist now.


gas oil smell. burnt steel. peeled plastic and paint
as the shapely sun-tanned matrons from Midwest America
cradle assault rifles between their legs
massaging their cunts, tattooing themselves
in red, white and blue under their cross.”


fully exposing the taste of salt and skin.



From Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections)



Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the misuse of love, the curse of secrets, the pain of victimization and the impact of multi-obsessions sexual and otherwise. He is in love with the Three Mothers that sprung from the hallucinations of Suspiria de Profundis by Thomas de Quincey. He has been scarred by his past quests into the pits of Sin & Flesh in NYC’s East Village and Pre-Disney Times Square and he has been manipulated by trash culture and fine art. The bastard child of the films of Roger Corman and Russ Meyer, Peter has had over 300 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals.

Originally from Gravesend Brooklyn, he lived in the East Village, New York from 1979 to 1993 at the height of the punk – no wave music – cultural rebellion.  His published works include approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) (Bone Orchard Press), Peep-O-Rama: Sins of the Go-Go Girls (Hammer & Anvil Books available through Amazon and Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) published by Writing Knights Press available through Amazon.


Author’s website: www.angelferox.com


View as page...

Keep Throwing That Jab - poem by Martin Appleby

A far away friend
sent me his latest
poetry collection.
The inscription read
“Thanks Martin,
Keep throwing that jab”
a boxing metaphor
I had often said
to writers on Twitter
when I had seen despair
sent out into the void
after another rejection
or another day spent
staring at the blank page
attempting to tame
the black, blinking cursor.
I was feeling low
and hadn't written
a poem worth a shit
in far too long
and that inscription
was a timely reminder
that you have to
practise what you preach
but also a lesson that
you reap what you sow.


Chin down,
gloves up,
keep throwing that jab.



Martin Appleby is a writer, poet, punk, book reviewer, boxing fan, vegetarian, cider drinker and editor of PAPER AND INK LITERARY ZINE.



View as page...

Next Page