Carrion Birds
you thought it was just
another peanut butter
sandwich on just another
day but there was no just
about this, no sir. You
waited from before dawn
to sundown for the crystal set
to broadcast the new
numbers from Tongueistan
but the bulbs remained
dark, the worshippers
left to wonder if the plebeian
class were still in power,
still compos mentis.
there’s one salty mint
left in the bottom
of the bag, two mouths
to share its bounty, when
the center gushes forth
in a rainbow of fruit
flavors that lasts an entire night.
Me, an Intellectual:
There is talk of canonisation
for the duck, and the pilot as well.
We’ve taken the orange juice
out of the icebox, placed the tea
biscuits in their ramekins, now
we just wait for the arrival of Jean-
François and his underlings.
The local clericate does like
to delegate these things. Happy
we know about their weakness
for tea biscuits.
Hide the comic
books! Tear the posters
from the walls! (But be careful
of the corners. I paid a pretty penny
for that Van Damme.) Essential oils
behind the pressure points, model
helicopters in places of strategic
visibility. The breeze waltzes
through the cottage, picks up lotus,
citrus, maybe australopithecus
for all I know. (What does one
of those smell like, anyway?) Washoe
tortures the piano into something
that resembles Sibelius. I adulterate
the juice to be on the safe side.
Bruce Lee lurks in the Blu-Ray player.
One cannot be too careful
when it comes to potential sainthood.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Stone of Madness, Thirteen Myna Birds, and Caustic Frolic, among others.
you thought it was just
another peanut butter
sandwich on just another
day but there was no just
about this, no sir. You
waited from before dawn
to sundown for the crystal set
to broadcast the new
numbers from Tongueistan
but the bulbs remained
dark, the worshippers
left to wonder if the plebeian
class were still in power,
still compos mentis.
there’s one salty mint
left in the bottom
of the bag, two mouths
to share its bounty, when
the center gushes forth
in a rainbow of fruit
flavors that lasts an entire night.
Me, an Intellectual:
There is talk of canonisation
for the duck, and the pilot as well.
We’ve taken the orange juice
out of the icebox, placed the tea
biscuits in their ramekins, now
we just wait for the arrival of Jean-
François and his underlings.
The local clericate does like
to delegate these things. Happy
we know about their weakness
for tea biscuits.
Hide the comic
books! Tear the posters
from the walls! (But be careful
of the corners. I paid a pretty penny
for that Van Damme.) Essential oils
behind the pressure points, model
helicopters in places of strategic
visibility. The breeze waltzes
through the cottage, picks up lotus,
citrus, maybe australopithecus
for all I know. (What does one
of those smell like, anyway?) Washoe
tortures the piano into something
that resembles Sibelius. I adulterate
the juice to be on the safe side.
Bruce Lee lurks in the Blu-Ray player.
One cannot be too careful
when it comes to potential sainthood.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Stone of Madness, Thirteen Myna Birds, and Caustic Frolic, among others.