poems by Robert Beveridge



this feels like a lot more

than ninety-eight point

six but there’s always

something to be said

for moderation or is

there never something

to be said for moderation

i can’t remember but

here i am and i can’t

find a cool side to any

of these pillows feels

like this whole bed

is made of buffalo

chicken and pickle juice




The Lie Is Always in the Tone




not come


the pills stopped being

effective years ago. lie there.





“He’d have you believe otherwise; the pornographer’s orgasm is ordinary, ordinary.”–Robert Nagler




Depth of illusion draws us

into its fold, the thought that one

breast can be universal, perfect,

and it will be revealed to us




and do all the men in the booths

auspicious viewers

of that perfect breast

just wish to escape their jobs?




the Word does not only suggest

petty sexuality. The Word suggests

all one finds offensive. Holy books

reflect, in some respects, the Word.




One poor misguided fool, maybe,

will find satiety in the release

he chooses through the Word,

and will find his own true happiness.




The door shuts, the bomb drops

a second self becomes a second self.

She oils herself and you find glory.

Look deep into her eyes as she comes

to you, to you.

Robert Beveridge

Pornography, 2, break




Fingers grind against flesh, oil slicks

a smooth stomach, her eyes close

you are immersed in her oil, in her closed

eyes. She throws her arms out

to you, to you.




the Word, again and again

but you block it out.

You find endless depth in the oil

of her stomach that glistens

for you, for you.




The bittersweet tinge comes, you know

you will never see her again, not

this beautiful, not oiled

but you have found solace

for you, for you.






You no longer hear the noises

outside your window, the police

cars, motorcycles, streetcorner

preachers. The tones

of their various sounds

evade your song. Your every word

soprano honey, the drip

that dangles from the jar’s rim,

teases in a “yes”

or pours, heated,

in a mouthed “I love you”




20th Century Zeus, Looking Down


I watch a pretty girl

in a shapeless grey dress

wander through

a shapeless grey desert

out of time

monotonous rhythms

of heatwaves

fog her brain

into a thrum

a single beat

again and again

the whine

of a stockcar motor

at 150mph


a whumph

as the car crashes

into an infinite wall

the girl vanishes

into the sand

shapeless grey enveloped

into the landscape

poems by Robert Beveridge

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