The Scum Gentry Poetry Hole



Ian Critchley
She held a seed, in a
Cupped fist like a
And as she slowly decreased
Her grip, the sun
And the seed began to sprout
And blossom,
In bloom.
I said, “it reminds me of you,”
And that “once you let the dark
The light in,
You could flourish.” ...
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Thoughts During an Uncomfortable Moment with Brenda Browne

Thoughts During an Uncomfortable Moment with Brenda Browne

Laurence Vougiouklakis
I dismiss honesty
Sincerity is tedious
The human heart pumped itself dry 457 years ago
When some fucked up Italian spilled his guts
After too much wine
And complained in a wet alley
“It’s just too much, it’s just too much to take”
He probably said this in some elegant dialect
Possessed by an absurd sense of entitlement
Talking about some vile bitch
Who grew tired of his love-making
Probably too passionate;
Fuck her like an animal ...
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Killing Kiln

Killing Kiln

Ephraim Gast
It’s a pottery and clay day.
Aren’t we all feeling the thickness of the ether?
Yes but everyone still recoils and waters their very own laurels.
Oh, look: that topsoil is blowing off!
Now old Knave and young Lark can see me.
Under that damn ramshackle stalk is a damned, festering child who’ll do
The square-by-four dance each day with you (but just add one, minus two).
You both seem fine, and that’s all mine ...
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Our Lady of Refuge Rathmines

Our Lady of Refuge Rathmines

Peter O’Neill
An old cleaning lady, bowed down by years of service, approaches
The church under the weight of a full bucket of water, passes
The fonts, vulva like, where the original water you wear resides,
Opens a blue door promising mystery and incense and enters into
The history of flagellations, ecstasy and further humiliations!
For here, inside this kingdom, where the fallen man is intricately
Woven into the blood of the lamb, where his burden, the original
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It's About Time You Fucked Up Your Ideas

It’s About Time You Fucked Up Your Ideas

Paul Tristram
“Isn’t it about time you started misbehaving again
You must be missing the drink & drugs?
When was the last time you had a fight?
I’m sick of looking at your bruise-less body.
The Police haven’t been here in months, I’m ashamed!
Even the Corner Street Girls have stopped smiling at you.
Call yourself a Man? Jesus Christ, I’m so BORED!
I miss your hung-over, bloodshot beautiful eyes.
You limping up the street with a spring in your step.
Your scuffed and scabby knuckles down there
Flicking ...
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