The Scum Gentry Poetry Hole

The Stain

The Stain

Peter O’Neill
For Wilkys Weinhardt, after Augusto Dos Anjos
Insane synthesis of aural pyrotechnics and putrid content needed;
Yet sadly, and strangely, lacking here… Rather, sweetened, all
Too sweetened scent of mild corruption caused by cow dung—
Though a bucolic aroma, mind. No maggot infested carcass, rich
With the fat, thumb shape of pupae rotting in the midday sun,
The bloated Havana’s to be found above Lough Corrib, filled
Like puss injected éclairs, all ghoulishly swimming about
In ...
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Blue’s Black Rags

Blue’s Black Rags

Ephraim Gast
Blue’s black rags
Semaphore me in the breeze,
And I don’t know how to reply.
Blue’s a windy picardy third,
Only unhappy—what should I do
About Blue?
A greek chorus
Of horror follows us all about,
Attune to the happenings,
But what can they tell me about Blue?
There’s commotion in the dimmed wings—
Where’s Blue?
Lurking around and descending like cloud on
Collegiate scenes, of course.
The audience, from some source,
Watches on as Blue takes ...
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Bukowski Afternoon

Bukowski Afternoon

Paul Tristram
I awake upside down and giddy, again.
Head upon the sticky carpet
With my body sloping up
At an insane angle
Onto the settee.
I gag, cough and spit something
Wet sponge textured and ashtray tasting
As far away from me as I can manage.
Twist, fall and pull myself up
Onto my shaking legs,
Steadying the sloshing mess of my insides
By grabbing a-hold of the settee arm
And squeezing tight.
As my battered soul tries ...
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Three Poems

Three Poems

Rachel Coventry
My bad soul stayed back
Clinging to your clothes like smoke
Catching in your throat
Moving in peripheral vision
Sometimes a demon grinning
In your vitreous humor.
In its absence I developed
A fondness for charity shopping
Rummaging through piles
Of soiled sweaters with balling,
Picking them up with stiff fingers
Sniffing from a distance
Never buying anything.
They burnt out a wheelie bin
At the end of our road.
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Manz DeFio
He told us he was a Wagoner,
But he didn’t even know what that meant.
Half his buttocks hung in thin air,
The other half planted on the bar stool.
It was hard to figure out
What the smell about him was,
Vaguely onion or vinegar.
I wondered how many times he’d been to mass,
Sitting in the dark recesses,
Listening to the priest mumble,
Scratching his crotch.
I could envision him
Pummeling down country roads
On ...
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Thirsty Thursday

Thirsty Thursday

Metal Maher
It’s eight oh four
I’m seated in the dining area
At a table used for gathering dust
Rather than displaying banquets on
Cigarette ash spilling from the tray
Adding to the dust
Wine in the press. It’s Thursday you see
And that means a lot to a man
It’s the last night before boorish commoners
Flake out into the streets to have “good times”
But there is wine in the press. Living on a hill gives perspective
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