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

Movie of the Week of a Flying Sex Women - poem by Peter Marra

haunted nursery rhymes
slowly strumming with patient measure
vision mental (including psychosomatic) taste of her juices

at 4 a.m.
           she buried the pistol in the bayou mud
sweat blood
           smell stickiness
underneath her black painted fingernails

she avoided the cops without risking rehab
her grime was upstaging the law and order
with her legs spread, time doesn’t change
this film is heroin. sniff it and suck it. snuff.

voodoo sex is better
generates sounds that you can stomp heaven with

she held the shape of his glistening face
close to her heart revealing his perfect cries
she was stretched further than she had been preserved
a fist clutched gently around her prize

the July moon was drawn out long in a sky
translucent and still breathing

slowly as she patted the dirt down
slowly twirling under the black moon dive
she tasted her lips so salty so pure

the radio moaned scratchy music
           (poor reception in the swamp)
wearing a long leather tail
           her muscles ached
she didn’t recognize her actions anymore
           she showed way too much cleavage
sucking in the wet air of hot mongrel dreams
cruising the borderline lapping at brackish water

slip into bed deep red lips and nails

he was far away from the finished basement
           where she bled
           and the new kitchen where she fed
the spouse was gone
           only remnants left
licked powder residue from her hands
           sulfur nitrates
knives as aphrodisiac the libido frozen

the bayou begged for release

hand rubbing over hand
a walk in the dark area of desire
           no claims on life
hurried the psychedelic,
still covered in fresh people
           revealing his perfect cries

little of her blood in the mumbled pleasures
over his pathetic orgasm,
voodoo spells for a cure-all

“let's hump, never tried heroin.”

totally unable to satisfy her sexually

raw H mainlined burned electric
           don’t need him forever
           she’s innocent and naughty
           touch a mainline

she photographed every move:
the blood blossomed in the syringe water
           his slow o.d.
           his face floating under water
the slow drink of bourbon she enjoyed later on
           an atomic blast between her legs
           and she climaxed as she watched Nagasaki
           a debut feature-length

she’s just a creation of charms and amulets
true rituals are held as a last resort
start shaking for the Super-8

study correlations between guns, a systematic reconstruction
of pistols, submachine guns, and assault rifles,
from linguistics, from cognitive science,
before the marriage, is there a heart to save?

From Peep-O-Rama: Sins of the Go-Go Girls

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

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Assail - poem by Luiza Furtado

It is hunting season.
Cover your ear
If you don’t want to hear
The loud bang around the city.
Oh, do you think I am out to catch deer?
Not really.
I am after the dirtiest beasts and awkwardest queers.

I will chain them with my legs...
They will enjoy it.
And then I will crack their necks,
I’ll make them extinct.
That is my venomous instinct:
Ephemeral flings.

The cracks in the skin conceal
An inner burning flame
Only the eyes can reveal.
The predator moves with lustful temptation.
There is nothing more pungent
Than the power of intention.

A scent rests on the nose:
The target is found.
I set my eyes on the prize now.
I shoot and get up close,
I bite him from behind.
He never saw what hit him
There was no time to realise.

Luiza, died Brazilian — born again Irish Poet. Writes dark poetry, confessional poetry and feminist poetry.


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Among Savages - poem by Kevin Higgins

I’m secretly posh and I’m protestant
and no one believes the accent I got
off a man in Stoneybatter is real.

My dad earned the Krugerrands,
with which I paid for this house,
flogging rockets to
good-old-days South Africa.
My given name, Giles Amery the Eighth,
sounds great when you say it in Gaelic.

Each night I arrive at some party
to which I wasn’t invited,
carrying half a banjo
and sing songs made up of
things Brendan Behan
never actually said.

A small unsalted tear tumbles into
my half pint of alcohol-free Guinness,
every time I think of the boys from the estate
beyond the two big fields
behind the high, high wall we built
to keep them out;

how afraid I still am
they’ll one day
hold me down and make me talk
posh and protestant,
because even when it’s accompanied
with the bit of a beard I borrowed
from Ronnie Drew,

they know the accent I got
off that man in Stoneybatter
isn’t mine to speak.

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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