EKE
You’ve made the final
payment on the woolly
mammoth carcass
when you get the phone
call about the warehouse
fire. The big band station
got sold and now plays
Alanis Morrisette 24/7. Demons
have possessed all the line
cooks at Hamster Dog
and every order is now
delivered pre-deceased.
Planes to Des Moines end up
in Austin after a quick stop
in Nunavut. The shipping
container where you keep
both your still and your vanity
press was sublet and is now
full of drunk poets who cosplay
obscure Jack Arnold movies.
You have seen the savior
and realized she is not your
savior. You take the cremains
and send them into a bottle
of Jack Daniels, hide it behind
seventy-five copies of the Collected
Poem of Baalbeirth Brown.
You know they’ll get to it soon.
THE SHOELACE
Of course,
you know how it started
he saw
all the details
that didn’t agree with him
they were like
steaks cooked
in PCP
with goats’-blood gravy
and he got asked
one too many times
if it was hot enough for him
he got told
one too many times
to have a nice day
and so he bought a gun
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Blood and Thunder, Feral, and Grand Little Things, among others.
The Literary Forest Poetry Magazine 