My Cardboard Balcony

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, thinki...

Flat on the ground, my chin was in the grass. You were sitting on top of me, pinning my shoulders together, giggling like a maniac. I could barely breathe, and it made him worse that I was laughing and hiccuping and most likely turning sixteen different shades of purple. "Okay. Get off. Get off get off get off get off get oooooff." The air rushes back into my chest as you roll beside me, clinging to my hands on the way down.