by Robert Beveridge
They’ve trampled the field to mud,
kicked the cows out for a weekend
getaway. They pulled out the bikes,
headed for the country, shoplifted
their ways from every direction
until they found the perfect meadow,
large enough for everyone but, they
thought, the living dead. Did anyone
think to dig latrines, bring food?
Acoustic guitars by the gross,
but not a trace of calamari, elk jerky,
cauliflower in sight. Why was
anyone surprised that a hungry
Tobias Lemmingswill sank his choppers
into the thigh of a biker strumming
“Wonderwall?” Well, they shouldn’t
have been. “Eat greedily,” they said.
* The title is a line from Joseph Trumbull Stickney’s poem “Oneiropolis.”
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in London Grip, Tomorrow and Tomorrow, and Sin Fronteras, among others.
