‚ÄčRobert Beveridge    

The Better Angels

The seven walk, sometimes
in a group, others a loose line
to cover more landscape. 
Consider birds, trees, the town 
just over the horizon. 

They can be lazy, yes, or quick 
to anger, but among them, which
does not need food, a bed 
with a willing wench to warm it? 
There is always desire 
in the passage of coins to the hotelier. 

They line up at the bar, each 
with a shot of the local rotgut, survey
the scene. Each beautiful, yes, glorious
in her own fashion, primped 
and preened with the hubris of those 
who aspire to godhood.
They know; they bask. 

Barflies, courtesans, card-players,
blind piano players all are worshippers
here. They come forth, drink, commune. 

Bonedaddy Father of All Bones

Is always interested in what you have to say. Was at Versailles during the general unpleasantness. Has been known to play the drums. Only eats beans for breakfast, and only in the context of general aggression against the aardvark population. Can talk your ear off about Ghanaian horror. Is aware of the presence of worshippers, but only in a vague, non-discrete, sense. Enjoys Talking Heads and Yma Sumac with equal fervor. Has never been to Kostnice. Has an appointment with your racist uncle next week. Is the only known entity to have had the high score on at least one Galaxian machine on every continent simultaneously. Wrote a dissertation on late stage capitalism in the films of Ninja. Just says no to drugs.  

First World Problems

how alleys in America
can resemble dusty African plains

or the streets of Afghanistan
in drops of peacetime blood

how the man with the scissors
gets all the young pussy

and niqab do not prevent
the passage of lustful thoughts

how a clitoris can be 
interchangeable with a brick

Lisa, Moaning
86 years ago today

Vincenzo Perruggio
was a horny bastard,
pals always said he
could fuck the water
out of a bum well,

so when he started
to buy into the hype,
he went for the big time
and decided the Mona
Lisa was to be his next

How he got her no one
has ever said,
but she ended up
hanging in his pad
for almost two years.

The Louvre curators,
upon her return,
did not comment
on the recent stains
that marked the canvas' back.


You have taken to doing
your weekly grocery run
at 3AM. Empty fluorescent
aisles lend themselves
to your medicated shuffle,
remind you of your apartment.
One brand the same
as any other, your purchases
no more than sustenance
for another uneventful day,
and another, another, another,
a joyless row that stretches
over the horizon of dusty,
cracked earth. You have
never seen a raincloud
in the endless grey sky.
You shuffle back, turn key
in lock, bags stuffed
with offal. You wonder
if the sun will ever set.

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.