SurVision Magazine
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An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry
in English.
Issue Four
ROBERT BEVERIDGE
About Face
You turn the page
and see a portrait
of the woman you have always wanted
to marry
and for the four hundred seventy-fifth time
you wonder
if she could sing along
to the latest hit
by Quotidian Ruin, say.
You're asking shadows for quarters
and paying Charon with buffalo-head nickels again.
In another life, possibly, you
would have found this a comfortable existence,
but here, you just sit
in the corner, stare
at the wall, sweat coloring
the collar of your shirt.
You wonder what the postman will bring today.
Your dog sits in your lap
(it is a toy poodle)
and you imagine
it has the face
of the woman you have always wanted
to marry
Keepsake
eyes to the ceiling, glassy, in search
of what will never
be there
blood, slow now,
easing itself through vents
unexpected, unforeseen
hand clutched, cold
around the square pane
of a shattered disco ball
Swindle
The rod
has taken its tip
from the rose bush;
thorns remember,
salt cannot forget.
The tinge
is always red.
and see a portrait
of the woman you have always wanted
to marry
and for the four hundred seventy-fifth time
you wonder
if she could sing along
to the latest hit
by Quotidian Ruin, say.
You're asking shadows for quarters
and paying Charon with buffalo-head nickels again.
In another life, possibly, you
would have found this a comfortable existence,
but here, you just sit
in the corner, stare
at the wall, sweat coloring
the collar of your shirt.
You wonder what the postman will bring today.
Your dog sits in your lap
(it is a toy poodle)
and you imagine
it has the face
of the woman you have always wanted
to marry
Keepsake
eyes to the ceiling, glassy, in search
of what will never
be there
blood, slow now,
easing itself through vents
unexpected, unforeseen
hand clutched, cold
around the square pane
of a shattered disco ball
Swindle
The rod
has taken its tip
from the rose bush;
thorns remember,
salt cannot forget.
The tinge
is always red.
