Robert Beveridge
THE LIVING DEAD
When you mistake the kiwi that lurk
in the back of the crisper for eyes,
when your epi-pen takes on a distinct
flavor of garlic, when the people
you pass on the street all bum a light
in the exact same tone of voice, when
your toy poodle manages to eat
half your foliage before you remember
you don't have a toy poodle, when
the hot dog guy claims to be out of mustard
but you can see a yellow stain
on his sleeve, when the rain tells you
over and over again to drown, drown, drown,
when the snow would be your friend
if only you could figure out its language,
when you can no longer hear the difference
between the rats in the walls and the ones
in your head.
* * *
help
when I was younger (so much younger than today) I saw a movie called the Brood and the
idea was impressed on me that one could physically manifest his hate fear guilt pain
when I was younger (so much younger than today) I didn't understand and I tried to manifest my
hate fear guilt pain in those I loved for they needed to see these emotions
when I was younger (so much younger than today) I gained understanding and I tried to manifest
my hate fear guilt pain in myself with knives and pills
and now I'm older (and I'm not so self-assured) and red weltering scars of hate fear guilt pain are
appearing all over my body
* * *
CROWD
The echoes of footsteps
become a wall, the crush
of bodies a room.
Not even a stray hand to grasp
eye to catch.
Pulled along as it moves. Unable
to sink, to slow.
Concrete chuckles amidst the babble.
Not even a drop of rain,
a cloud.
Find the brick of a storefront
and huddle until it passes.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Savant-Garde,
Other People's Flowers, and The Indiana Horror Review, among others.
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