Robert Beveridge

How To Write Poetry

Crucified, Jesus
spoke the world’s
most poetic line:

Heleva, the second:
“There is no poetry in that.”

Nail yourself 
to a cross built
from other dead girlfriends
and their suicide boyfriends
(preferably in mahogany)
glued together with blood
taken from the heart
with a 14-gauge needle.
Whisper the first thing
that comes to mind,
Aramaic optional.

Wash your hands in urine,
dry them on the stuffed
carcass of an armadillo.
Pink fairy is preferable
but giant will do in a pinch.

Touch someone beautiful,
fall in love, commit
suicide, repeat the cycle
as often as possible.
Don’t forget the urine.

Trim your adverbs.
Trim your gerunds.
And don’t be cynical,
whatever else you do.

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