Daily Archives: November 17, 2016

We Will Gather for a Martyrdom by Robert Beveridge

I am not a silent poet

“He had written about the way newspaper used to be, and the way organized crime in Philadelphia used to be, before somebody put a shotgun in Angelo Bruno’s ear and blew away all the order and dignity and discipline organized crime had. That was when the drugs came into it—the old man never allowed it—and the next thing you knew, motorcycle gangs and guys like Charlie Piscoli were doing family business.” –Pete Dexter, God’s Pocket

What I was saying

was the cold is more our friend

than fire.

The cold preserves what we are

where the fire destroys—

no, not destroys, transforms—us.

You said, for the third time,

that we had been preserved

for too long, It has been years,

you said, eons, even. Transformation

would be a joy. Even reformation

would be welcome. Would be preferable

to this.

And you did it again, sold your autobiography to Golgotha…

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Once by Robert Beveridge

I am not a silent poet

I: once upon a time I could control myself

I was good

back in the old days

at being nice to people

and metering my rhymes.

I thought the world

was a presidential speech

but hate burns hard

these days like diamonds

where once I had eyes

the lines are liberated

meters from within

rhythm of pained

nerves thrum

their orchestrations

metabolism of craving

dictates the direction

of my pen

once upon a time

I could control myself

but now I let

Polyhymnia focus

herself through me

II: once upon a time I could ruin myself

Marijuana sonnets

and cocaine canzones

were beautiful

intensity unmatched

by the best of Whitman

or Dickey in those days

I still don’t know

why I quit

but those nights I lie

alone in a double bed

every tear that drips

from my earlobes wishes

for one more pill

pantoum, one last

acid seizan


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Belie by Robert Beveridge

I am not a silent poet

seven nails provide restraint

bat sits, eyes, fixed, sightless

drove without drove within

another antler sick with want

a hold against a door ablaze

the glow where blood alive, aware

dark corners fetid on the tongue

provide all stimulation Washed

with chamomile and lye. Torn

paper marks the brick. Believe.

Nothing scurries in you now.

All is still. Repent. Believe,

Never question. Cynic drone.

Cigarettes and silk. Believe.

Eyes roll back in candy jars.

The chocolate on your tongue. Believe.


Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Ghost City Review, Minor Literature[s], and Barking Sycamores, among others.

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aftermath by debasis mukhopadhyay

I am not a silent poet

beneath the frippery of the new & old nigger pew it was written, no, not exactly written but designed, the white lyrics of his machete. when the wishful despot unveiled the timepiece by inhaling by thimblefuls a petunia pickle bottle full of other bad blood, the voting motivation was again seen imprinted on the solid phalanx of the thingamabobs.
the replay provoked the spectators to look for the same motivation elsewhere in History which was now becoming a mattress bursting into guffaws. he looked pleased, he could now just raise his yellow eyes to undo his hairstyle. now it was just a matter of guess, or glass? where else that candid swastika could be traced? on the back of the newly earned tortoise shell necklace dangling between his purple areolae? sitting on the verge of the cleft of his hips his clergy was singing hallelujah.

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