It’s Not the Heat, It’s the Humidity by Robert Beveridge

Lying naked
across the bed,
she’s been coughing
up blood again

He’s in the bathroom.
Shitting, snorting
coke, she doesn’t know.

She never coughed up blood
until she met him,
started smoking
those damned clove cigarettes
that he sometimes laced
with liquid PCP

sometimes she thinks
I just want to get out of here.
The she lights a clove
cigarette and the feeling goes away.


Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. He went through a messy divorce with Facebook some months ago, and as a result his relationship with time is much improved. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pink Litter, The Algebra of Owls, and Main Street Rag, among others.


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