Monday, January 22, 2018

Poetry By Robert Beveridge

Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pulsar, Tessellate, and Scarlet Leaf Review, among others.

The Amazing Slam Diet



press your face
against the glass
and watch
this fire

in this cruel

the mortal remains
of a thousand thousand
howling birds

so much time wasted

but so many emancipated

sun reaches out
over water
and ensnares them

if you can
and know
they are free

Leave the Obscure

All is not art.
is what we ask
our lovers
when we lie
next to them,

All lies dead
in the last
vestiges of riot
buildings burned
around it

the sound
of a lute
in the distance

Poconos Manifesto 1992

We are trapped in a world without gangsters
and it seems to me
the lights in all the flowers have gone out
there is a dog sewn to this highboy
in front of your house
but it still moves about with relative ease

I can see your form in a silhouette behind your blind
you are lit from the back
and as you take off your blouse
for one instant your breasts are visible through that fabric

and I fall in love with you again
for the two hundred eighty-seventh time

as I pat your dog absently it is shedding blue tears
I call it a man
and rub its tears on my face
sing as I walk away

A Portrait of the Artist

Open your throat
with the silver razor
silence springs
forth, you begin
speaking backwards

the woman caresses
your throatsmile under
the red light
she wears a dress
of your blood

you stitch your lips
with duncolored
yarn, wench
of dreams
now the hole
in your throat
talks for you

now you have learned
to sing from the diaphragm

Red Wings


They face each other, circle.
Brandish clubs. No feints here,
the object is to kill. Quick
and clean.
      The winner
does not matter, except
to the prize.

When only one remains, he dips
his fingers in the loser's blood,
claims his bride. Traces red
along the line of jaw, the lip,
one dollop in the center of the forehead.

The wedding is complete.


I rest my head
on your thigh. These times,
when you feel the moon's pull greatest,
you seem as pleasured by my tongue's
caress, but still you ask
what urges me to seek
oral shelter in you then. I shift,
turn my face to the ceiling;
you sit up. “Oh, God, honey,”
you laugh, “your face
is covered.” I touch my fingers
to my cheek, examine them.
Such redness.
“All this blood.”
You trace its path
from ear to lip. I dot
the center of my forehead
and you kiss me.


All writing is shit

ghosts flow through me
but I cast them out
digest the excrement
on the pages
of my father

not worth
the flatulence of pigs

not axiom

postulate works of art
and destroy Picasso

push the words of Foucault
through the shredder

seduce the Mona Lisa
and blacken her lips
Hartzell Hartzell
sound is all knowledge
urrr grrr
debase to animalia
the womanroot of feeling

not derogatory but inspirational
these emotions are all
cah cah

and in these words of non
alive on bread and alcohol
we reside

we bite god
in his clemency
and he pulls the crab nebula trigger


Rolling in einst├╝rzende
the architecture
of the homeless

strike that
it made too much sense

seven-page manifestos are too long
for the gestalt of gestation
and even to read

Arp collapses, unfolds
dog collapses, unfolds

dogsbody decomposes
the bloody
Someday in sharp focus

rip the locks themselves
from their anger!
Moloch is dead
dead dead dead
and only the god
of the Corpse
stands extreme
in his beauty

he is exquisite
decayed and angry
an ogregrrrgrrr
leafing the battlements
and hell! the final frontier

all that is left
when swords slice through the gods
is writing

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