Advertising executives pay by the minute
to watch you strip, raven-haired harlot.
You collect stamps, tattoo them in places
that cost extra. There’s a map
of Iceland on your thigh, a portrait
of James Joyce connecting sole
to arch. No one has ever seen
the insides of your eyelids. How then
can I say what you’ve put there?
At the end of every dance
you come up with a slogan,
to be delivered only
to the best tipper.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Neologism, In Between Hangovers, and Clementine Unbound,