The Scum Gentry Poetry Hole

A Corner Turned

A Corner Turned

Poetry
John D. Robinson
‘You were collapsed in
the heap of shit that you
are, I found you when I
came home from work
at the bottom of the stairs:
our neighbours had tried
to rouse you and didn’t
know whether to call an
ambulance, you’re
beginning to become a
fucking mess and it’s
hurting me and I can’t
love you, it’s horrid’
she told me across the
cafe table; I was shaky
and couldn’t look at her,
I was ...
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Cometh, the Hour, Cometh the Dame

Cometh, the Hour, Cometh the Dame

Poetry
Kevin Higgins
After John Cooper Clarke
.
The fucking dame is fucking furious
and not fucking having it
fucking up is fucking down
fucking in is fucking out
fucking master is fucking slave
fucking Palestine is fucking never
fucking Goliath is fucking David
fucking catapult is fucking atom bomb
the fucking wall was fucking built
to keep the fucking Arabs off
the fucking land fucking snatched
fucking fair and fucking square
.
and if you lot dare
say I ...
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Torture Libido

Torture Libido

Poetry
Lourdes Vega
With breath hung heavy and love like a shooting gallery, I say, I lost myself in anonymity.
The sweet spot of sickly instinct, impoverished by all lovers’ lament.
All else before stunk of cat piss and dog shit.
Some putrid lovers quarrel without any meaning.
Hate is too simple a word, as I loathed it. Purely fucking misanthropic.
I was never in control of my affairs, they controlled me.
Not anymore, cause I adore this drug-fueled push and ...
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The Official Account of my Death

The Official Account of my Death

Poetry
William S. Tribell
All the way from the Renaissance and that lasting ripple
And of course the ancients—learning, discerning deceits
Those sinister sorts of questioned character—Marlowean intrigue
The real stories, life and death, history and mine—the eye
I was born scorned and a strong hypothesis, born forsworn
Endowed—a great mind, but then you find slip and transgression
Bedded and barter—food from the larder
Feeding a service disappearing to ferment insurrection
Intelligence, ideologies and a bit of dodgy business along ...
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In the Ivy Exchange

In the Ivy Exchange

Poetry
Daniel Wade
For Karl Parkinson
.
‘the rain falls
that had not been falling
and it is the same world…’
– George Oppen, Of Being Numerous.
.
Rain: my 95th favourite type of weather.
Doesn’t take much to remind me, sure it doesn’t,
now that I sing of all that I ever wasn’t
with very little song left in me? However,
.
before starting work, I walk past the Ilac,
freestanding in certainty, the whir of a street-
sweeper ...
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Till Death Does Us

Till Death Does Us

Poetry
Elisabeth Horan

Broken pine
Behind the painting
The world we inherit
Married we made it
A lot better
Something together
It was not capable before
Long roads alone
So dangerous if not
Deadly. All demons
Know midnight knows
Curves; slatted twilight
Steering I sat on your lap
Feet feel pedals, as friends—
Motel eyes blinking
Vacancy in here
It sure was, and we filled it up
Our honeymoon
One day
One twilight
Before we drove off
Fender hubs gone
...
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