Robert Beveridge – poetry


It spits out corpuscles, drives
a red mercedes. Closes things.
It puts up walls, and they get
closer, smaller. Sand blows
on demon winds through its
eyes. It moves too fast to see.


Tuple tuple tuple tuple prison
cell formula always starts
with an assertion of its own
existence, naked, wet, just
from the womb. A savage
cri de colonne d’identit√© that leaves
ten thousand administrators
exhausted, joyful, teary-eyed.
Sixteen years later they check
for open-source, or try to pirate
it the day it turns legal. Word
on the street is there are
countdowns in the darker parts
of the web, bets taken on how
many days it is until the newest
finitary relation loses her virginity.
None of them are true. We design,
code, design, code, refine, design,
code, tuple, tuple, tuple, tuple,
prison cell with endless coffee.


bead of light snakes
across cable, back and forth.
transmission dances.
nothing at the other end
can receive.
we sleep in threes,
one person at watch
outside. dead cigarettes
pile up.


Stiletto word omnibus
leaks against the cranium.
Shut out. Wake the seed
of None-the-less. Good siding
is the key. Let two more goldfish go,
the payroll’s over budget. Refreshes.
Takes another sip of calves’ blood.
It is the magic marker
between your legs. Rest. Light
weight. Stem the mountain,
sleep in cotton hideaway.
Burnt lips speak only truth.

Wither. Drained. Pause
of affection. Never there.
Deep, sick. Quetzlcoatl
has turned his attentions northward.
Shit black ice. Traffic
backs up for miles. The cops
seek you. Hide in the fortune
cookie factory and make up
new names for yourself. You
were never so much the romantic
you wouldn’t drop a former life
like an old lover, or a burnt piece
of diamonique. Take care

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