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Thursday, April 7, 2016

Outsider Poetry By Robert Beveridge

Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Riverrun, Chiron Review, and The Machinery, among others.

Convulsion
Too Dark Park, Part 1

Bite down.
Feel the rough hands grip you.
Struggle.
Hate yourself even though you know you can't help it.
Let them take control.
Let them strap you down.
Let them inject you with calming drugs.
They know what's best for you.


The Sketchbook of Antonin Marchaud

At last!—here is a figure
I can recognize
maybe a dog
all in shades
of black and grey
a vile read streak
frozen through it
ice on the top
of a bay

in this nonexistent world
what, Antonin, is one more
dead dog on a blue
background? One
more dog in the sky?

Try your hand at Exquisite
Corpse with the cadavers
of Breton, Ernst, Tanguy

see then if the figures
you draw are still
streaked with red


Slater

It is unattached, this piece
of cortex:
floats in grey
fluid, pulses
its message into the thickness,

unable
to reach
the spine.

It is thunder without
the sheets of light,

the empty bed
we stretch to cover
when alone.

Its fingertips can touch
but not grasp
the tree limb
just before
the inevitable plunge.

It is the way your face
is always
so close to tears

and how you reach out
in the night
to hold him,

how your mind
still sits
flushed with hypergraphia
in the dayroom
as he enters you.

It is the broken switch,
the light that cannot be
turned off,

the burned catatonic eyes.

How your lips feel
on the skin of your wrist
and the way you are drawn
to butter.

This is not release
from disconnection,
but, perhaps, 
a small alleviation.


Steady

There is a word for this.
Borderline. No one ever
told me which two countries
my feet tread. No one
knew.

There is a word for this.
Embryo. The oval white
of gluten wrapped
around me, and my feet
kicked hard enough
it cracked.

There is a word for this,
Speech. The true
and final end to this,
how words can shatter
brick with their vibrations.

There is a word for this.
Desire. All Sisyphus
ever had to do
was straighten his back,
say “I'm finished.”

There is a word for this.


Transport

One too many
blinking red lights
one too many
school-crossing ladies
he sees
an old couple
crossing
against the light
and guns it


The Wheel of Karma

when he was young
he picked up the habit
of meditation in dumpsters

but didn't understand
why he was allergic
to ants

when he took a lover
at twenty-seven
he could only make
love to her 
in those same dumpsters

she married him anyway
they honeymooned 
in Newark


Why You Comfort Me

What scares me the most?
God, I'm glad
you asked, finally.

My child was murdered
six months ago—
I was told last night.
I was scared.

Forty-five minutes
ago, I was sober—
the last forty-
five minutes scare me.

Bugs.
Bugs scare me thoroughly,
a bullet-shaped body
with tentacles like
a squid
crawling up my chest
when I awaken.
That really scares me.

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