The Scum Gentry Poetry Hole

I Am (not that into me either)

I Am (not that into me either)

Poetry
Louise M. Hart In Memoriam, John Clare (1793-1864) I am Van Gogh’s emasculated ear
Severed to diminish feeling, I died before I became real
Comprised of stories no one wanted to hear
And rendered out of mode, like an old fashioned picture book
Disproportionate in words and imagery
When I speak, the herd turns its braying back
I blame ...
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After the Revolution

After the Revolution

Poetry
Kevin Higgins
for and entirely inspired by Quincy Lehr We will pay homeless people to follow
poet and critic Matthias Wetruder. And not just
into drug-stores, dry-cleaners, and taxi-cabs
(though there too) but also into Japanese restaurants
where said homeless person will sit
next table vociferously demanding,
as will be his or her right,
tomato ketchup with their sushi; ...
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The Ghost of Frida Kahlo

The Ghost of Frida Kahlo

Poetry
Des Mannay Did you see her
at the conference?
She throttled
Theresa May Being worn,
an appendage
on that clammy wrist,
was an affront to
Frida’s bisexuality,
disability,
blood red Communism. Poltergeist Frida
ripped words off walls
the way she tore
through life;
with eyes like fire. Elsewhere—
‘Diego Rivera Reloaded’,
painted a new mural
with a p45 on,
...
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Beige Heterosexuals

Beige Heterosexuals

Poetry
Kevin Higgins
after Jameson Fitzpatrick Oppression is a brown woman,
who used to be beige and called
Gerald, until she discovered it
an unfortunate name for a girl,
taking up no seats on the bus
because she prefers to travel
in the luggage compartment,
despite always buying
at least three tickets. It is also my both telling you,
and ...
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As the Drums Sound

As the Drums Sound

Poetry
Annabelle Kang
You are empty and loud
Just like the drums that sound
So close to me that my body quakes
I am five years old again
Hiding under the table
Bruised knees pressed on hardwood floors which have seen spilled blood and wine win against flesh and bone
The conductor writes fortississimo—
The whole house obeys Annabelle Kang ...
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Journalisticus Gonzocus Hibernicus

Journalisticus Gonzocus Hibernicus

Poetry
Kevin Higgins
Each morning around four in the afternoon
a crypt cracks opens and out you crawl,
the shades Michael Hutchence’s valet leant you bravely
fighting off the viciously sarcastic Irish sun. Today you’ll be asked, by a last minute replacement
for Dave Fanning, what it was like
to fondle with both cheeks a bar stool on which
the ...
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