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I spent my last fiver

on the movies, to escape

into pustulant zombies,

ill-written love stories,

the endless predictability of celluloid.

 

The kids two rows above

kept sniggering. I couldn’t tell

if they laughed at the actors

or at the guy below them, alone,

cheering on the undead.

 

 

 

Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, Ohio. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Third Wednesday, and Guide to Kulchur, among others.
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