Tonight's Poet Corner: Some Guy

Some Guy
by Belinda Roddie

Some Guy spilled gunpowder all over
Parliament some pocketful of years ago,
and thanks to technicolor commentary
in fancy-wrapped books read by
disillusioned adolescents, it's suddenly
a big thing. Though really, it all comes down to

disobedience in a violently shaken
martini, distributed unevenly
amid the thirsty populace, and as a
result, some get the olive,
while others get all the alcohol
in their veins where they become
sluggish and numb, so numb,
with the needle playing in the grooves of
their vinyl bones, bending them into anthems,
warping them in the sun, begging them to
follow a message.

Get me a typewriter: I'll write you a fucking
mantra. I'll duct tape it onto telephone poles
because I don't do staplers,
and I'll go Banksy on your blood and
spray paint your central nervous system
on the walls of your small business,
and you'll take it to be a gold artery
in your mine of whimsical ideas,
thinking that if you remember it well enough,
it'll make some difference behind the fragments
of glass that cling to your pseudo-martyr scalp
like a modern crown of thorns.