The Scum Gentry Poetry Hole

Long Forgotten Chance

Long Forgotten Chance

Lar Kenny
For an Argentine harlot with silver teeth
Beneath the waning amber light
a hand is offered from inside smoke;
where silly plans of love are scattered,
hoarse cries float from scarlet tongues;
the Ginastera piano plays,
her weightless ways’ embodiment.
“Dance,” she puts down her Quentão,
“Dance,” she says, “Dance!” and I say, “No.”
A sylphwhite hand bids me rise, seventy
prayers recalled, the knuckles redden,
I reject ascension, opt for sweetbread,
while the chandelier unfurls ...
Read More


Avelynne Kang
You kissed me
Slick with nicotine
Lips pompous, pouting poppies
Like we’re veterans
Of the thousand little deaths
In a cigarette
In my thrusts—
A delicious additive to the ego
I stroked and stroked and stroked—
Me, your mental Viagra
My work left in the dust
That trails your triumph ...
Read More
Snow Flake Gets Pep Talk From his Professor

Snow Flake Gets Pep Talk From his Professor

Kevin Higgins
Right now things may look black as crematorium smoke.
You sit watching assignment deadlines pass,
like buses one by one growling out of
a Friday evening depot.
Trump’s elected and the girl with whom
you spent last night sharing your hurt
wouldn’t even give the traditional
sympathy hand job.
Well, we’ve all sat on such sofas,
slipped our eager fingers between
their slightly soiled cushions and found only
what looked like an old peanut M&M.
Read More
The Sad Page Three Girl

The Sad Page Three Girl

Peter O’Neill
You the paper Venus,
Madonna of the celibates
Who kneel before you
To offer up their prayers.
In amongst the tin of beans,
The sliced pans and the threadbare
Carpets, some of your realm,
Where you are our elixir.
On the stairs of the bedsits
With their odour of dead males,
Know that behind those doors
There are secretly thousands loving you.
Now there smile, don’t look so sad.
You are magnificent. You are ...
Read More
A Royal Pickle

A Royal Pickle

Dan Riley
Philip burrows deep into his cavernous nostril,
his long cockled nobbly finger beneath
translucent anaemic skullskin.
He’s pitched himself at 110°
20° behind the 90° Elizabeth
iron-faced, straight ahead,
unaware of her busy husband.
Harry sits beside his very own bride to be.
They have both discovered a way
into one anothers’ outfit,
his clammy ginger hand sits
pressed against her inside thigh,
her warm palm wrapped meaningfully
around her very own Sergeant Major ...
Read More


Laurence Vougiouklakis
You ask me who she is, for the name of this, my,
Licensed by petulance, her keen eyelashes
Seem, especially at night, to assume the coherence
Of algebras, trigonometries.
Her name is Fortunata, harbinger of such symphonies
The likes of which
You’ve never heard; rejoice! rejoice!
For right now she carries to us a basket of pears ...
Read More

Stalk us through the Mind-Farms of Social Media...

Or Check Out These Links!