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.