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

The Outsider - poem by Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon)

The evening of staggering drunks, he is after hangdog,
Weasel-faced streetwalkers.
Whom he points his carved stick at,


or whom he stigmatises with his finger on the bare skin,
they will not be disgusted ever again by the touch of his rigor mortis,
but in the following days,
horrendous leprosy-like blotches will cover the entire body it will rot,
through the thinned bones,
skull the size of a bird’s head will be handed over untouched by the furnace of the incinerator.
Wherever he appears—in a black mask, wrapped in a shabby cloak; children disappear without a trace.


The outsider is the satyr of abandoned playgrounds “all he needs now is a scythe in his hands”
Now next to the graveyard he carves mysterious
figures in the sacred decay of parched mud.


Flower heads, heavy as stone, are tied up with rusty wire,
its heads still touching the earth; yellow, ropy leaves scattered on the soaked earth, trampled pathway like varicose veins.
Abandoned playgrounds famished satyr,
following through the unusual strength of the light of the moon,
he is after the staggering drunks, weasel-faced streetwalkers.


The deep green waters part the surface,
soon the islands drift together: patches of mould
fluorescent its green colour,
soon to become scale like core, solid filthy—hgreen samara.
A mysterious print, in the drying up mud of the graveyard.



(Translated by Johanna Semsei)



Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Earlier books: (szellem)válaszok, A Nap ás Holderők egyensúlya . New: Kiterített rókabőr. Known as a spiritualist medium who explores the relationship between magic and art.


View as page...

We're All Missing Our Letters  - poem by James Diaz

why the long way around
                                        and maybe not just this one time
wrapped tiny against that warp in the woods
                                                                      holly-hills singing
lost little dear
            I know each thing that burns          I
feel it too
               skin deep
the bone                 the neon sign
missing a few letters           we’re all missing something
                                    if I could I surely would
little darlin’ here’s the patch where my heart went through
   spun wide against the window
                                                    you lean and smoke into
like there’s no screen at all between      here and everywhere you’ve been
how many dark highways    and      gas station bathroom doors
                                     locked tight
Livin’ takes and takes oh taker I got those blues too      I just wish you’d believe me
when I say           it’s alright        to let the damn thing chew a bit off the ends of us
we’ll grow new limbs            you’ll see so much      that the dark keeps hid
it ain’t pretty       but       it ain’t so ugly either



James Diaz is the author of This Someone I Call Stranger (Indolent Books, 2018). He is founding Editor of the literary arts & music mag Anti-Heroin Chic. His work has appeared most recently in Occulum and Philosophical Idiot. He lives in upstate NY and occasionally tweets @diaz_james. 



View as page...

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.”


stark
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



View as page...

Next Page