L’autre monde, Dollar, Happen, Just Another Ritual, Mr. Clean, Tetelestai, Two People Dream of Death. Poetry by Robert Beveridge


the spheres pass through
the barrier of water, spew
toxic fumes until they
emerge from the other side

the crowd applauds, never
less than polite, reaches
for their masks, their gloves

* * *


I thought it was a thorn
when in fact it was
only a nub. Yet still
you took offense, went
home to get your family
and all the weed killer
in your shed. Boy, was
that a prescient purchase.

* * *


We study the life cycle
of latex, how it breeds
in parking lots, woodland
paths, sewers. We have
never yet seen it mate
but its offspring grow
in number every day,
and as always we wonder
if they will outlive us

* * *


wash your hands they said dis
infect red velvet aloe in stones
in the river eat your way out of
macrophage awareness day I
want only the best for your gas
trointestinal tube or pavement
between Memphis and Dulles
Amazon calls with its always
present water vapor and your
hands are clean they are wet
and clean clean forevermore

* * *


the walls
and ceiling
come together
in a point
that looks
like the inside
of your elbow
washed white
with clorox

* * *


the prostitutes weep
in a hail of gold pennies
blood of the wood mixes
with selfish tears
as cars made of bread
pass on the road beside them

flocks have thronged
to see this crucifixion

a few of the faithful
ring the circle, ragged
watch in agony
in anticipation

while the media
cover a vacant lot
fire three blocks away

where years ago we sat
hand in hand and blessed
the sick and the homeless
ladled Jewish pencillin
into bowls until a man
with an automatic pistol
stumbled drunk into our
midst and sang Mariah
Carey until everyone fled

the being on the cross—
maybe human, no one
knows—watches the final
few embers sputter
out, the firemen gather
the final remains
of the tents amidst handfuls
of copper, drive away
in marbled rye hook
and ladders, then whispers
“it is finished” and since
the sky doesn’t dim
no one notices

* * *


While we’re asleep
we are never still
primitive revulsion
keeps us motile

our bodies cling, grind
against one another
we awake clutched


Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Red Coyote Review, Deep South Magazine, and Aromatica Poetica, among others.

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