My Cardboard Balcony

Subject by Belinda Roddie Soft, desperate seeking solace on a wet pillow. You dip your whole head of hair into night's clichéd silver. See, pewter would have suited the situation much better, matching the glow of the chandelier, matching the sheen on your tired hands, matching the decaying tongue of your lover lost in your wandering mouth.

Put It On Youtube by Belinda Roddie This is a social experiment: Let's pour milk from the balcony in Parliament, then watch the MPs who know nothing about the Internet or copyright shriek in terror as they meet their fates in dairy Carrie form. They will smell like Vitamin D for weeks, and their tea just won't taste the same to them with their biscuits. Then, when you're dragged out by the constables, sing to the percussion of Big Ben, who has been trying to grow a mustache for the past century and a half, but he could never make it past cast iron puberty. The bell tolls for your lack of facial hair, my dude.

Terminus by Belinda Roddie This shouldn't end now, but somehow, I imagine the stars that fall out of the sky will burn up like calligraphy on dry paper before landing. The flakes of ash will settle just in front of your face, though your lips will still sting, and the kisses will still feel permanently stained.

"How many bags do you need, sweetie?" "Oh. Uh...three, I guess?" She handed me three reusable bags, all green, and I hoisted them into the passenger's seat before settling into my beaten down sedan and driving to the grocery store. The sheet that my mom had given to me was pretty lengthy - she wanted at least three kinds of beans and several jars of olives. And that was just the beginning of the list.