Two Poems by Robert Beveridge

The Bearer’s Pint

Flash of tongue trails

over pink lip

matches your top

flowered, loose

in all the right places

not quite to your jeans.

The kiss can be deadly

but is oh so delicious.

Roman legions, it is said,

used it as a rite of passage

a toast of manhood.

photo of red jello shot

“Day 76” (image via Flickr user Pascal)

The Gelatissassin

(after Hendrixson)

The existence of windows in buildings

where the walls are translucent

makes little sense, yet the gelatissassin

waits behind one, patient, eyes trained

on the crushed-Pez sidewalk,

for his target.

Specificity is a must:

Jell-O shots are keys

to the victim. A lime would laugh

at a lemon bullet; no, black cherry’s

the thing. They, the black cherries

cruising the ghetto in their pneumatic

low-riders, are more susceptible

to pistachio poison than jiggly projectiles.


There—turning the corner. The lime.

Holding hands with a kiwi, just like

the contact said. The gelatissassin

raises his weapon, takes a bead.

Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in CircleShow, The Literateur, and Vanilla Sex, among others.