Carol of the Bells

by Robert Beveridge

We have walked this path

before, drunk from tulips' cups

and sang the Latin Mass

in the rain. An Ode to Joy,

another whisper under clouds,

your green shift washed away

in thunder, lightning. Turn

the clock back, we regain

the time we spend together

in renewed energy, shared strength.

Your fingers on the keys redress

the song, infuse it

with your curves, at once delicious

and despised. I can look at you

and see the perfect mix

of flesh and muscle; I can hope

you see this in my eyes.

Sweat washed away by rain

is still, of course, honest.

It is work, this unclothed

music, however we desire it,

and it leads us with it

back into the wilderness,

the satisfaction

naked in the rain.

by Robert Beveridge

My eyes have shriveled

and sink now in my chest

it purifies

cauterizes the wounds

on my wrists

I am blackened

I am charred

but now like you

I am clean

by Robert Beveridge

The taste of pennies in your mouth
not as exciting as expected, but still
satisfies. Your attention to detail
in your attempts to incite riots
in the streets were admirable 
but still a failure. No matter, nothing
a quick trip into clandestine direct
action wouldn't fix. And thus you 
find yourself here, last person 
upright at the end of this iteration
of the zombie uprising. Gasoline 
and saltpeter in your nostrils, 
tongue for once redder than your 
lips. Your witchery saved
for a battle to be named later. 
The slopes of Mt. Runar rise
before you; the blood gives you 
sustenance to climb.

by Robert Beveridge

You knew, after you felt the first bite,

you had found your niche.

The mission was simple.

Gordon the rat required

your personal touch.

Cats and poison just didn't have the stuff.

The leather, you always said, protects.

Their teeth glance off, don't sink.

The whip, its rawhide kiss, to make him see

who is mater, who is mouse.

Thus prepared, descend.

Edge of Nowhere

by Robert Beveridge

stark

        white

               walls

                     hate

                            my

                               face

                                      I

                                       burn

                                            on

                                                this

                                                    cold

                                                           table

by Robert Beveridge

seven birds

in a circle

all stare at the same worm