The Scum Gentry Poetry Hole



Patricia Walsh
Vomiting against the wind, hungover sacrosanct,
presenting itself through a badge of honour,
traipsing through the streets, a homely sight,
more surprises championed against growing up
sympathised through another disposition.
This goodly act, slighting for better entertainment,
what happens upstairs stays there, coffee aside,
working through swathes of imperfect manuscripts,
more worse then the other, never fathoming ...
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Unfuck Me

Unfuck Me

Lourdes Vega
I was found hospice. Force fed opiate and emptied of emotion
I coaxed catatonia, seducing it with my innate vulnerability.
I called the easiest escapade and he answered.
Man deserving nothing less than a bullet between the eyes, but somehow managing much more.
Lest our heads be dipped in sky, our hearts were on fire and bodies entwined.
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Confessions of a Wind-Up Doll (True Burlesque)

Confessions of a Wind-Up Doll (True Burlesque)

Peter Marra
There is always beauty in the hissing sounds.
The alternating camera speeds reveal a long-lashed woman;
touching experimental films, she has a forceful birth
to destroy Hollywood
a local documentary,
a psychodrama,
and a spectacle of
piano crashes—
so dramatic
in the cinema on King’s Highway in Brooklyn
three prostitutes wear clear vinyl dresses
comparing themselves to ...
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The Cursory Search

The Cursory Search

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
I had expensive clothes.
My cufflinks were worth more
than your yearly salary.
Meanwhile, roaches crawled
around his clothes kept in
a cheap garbage bag.
There were no cufflinks
there, no fancy dress shirt or
any type of long sleeve
shirt inside the bag.
I had a jacket there that ...
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One For The Demigod Atheist

One For The Demigod Atheist

John Sweet
a river through the desert,
late December,
this dust-colored sky at sunset,
these silent houses down dead-end streets church spires and the taste of road salt accidental overdose behind
the car wash got a houseful of true believers and
a can of gasoline got a hidden camera to film the
blow jobs and the payoffs ...
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Keep Throwing That Jab

Keep Throwing That Jab

Martin Appleby A far away friend
sent me his latest
poetry collection.
The inscription read
“Thanks Martin,
Keep throwing that jab”
a boxing metaphor
I had often said
to writers on Twitter
when I had seen despair
sent out into the void
after another rejection
or another day spent
staring at the blank page
attempting to tame
the black, ...
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