Gritty Details

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Tonight's Poet Corner: Long Live The King

Long Live The King
by Belinda Roddie

You tickle the underbelly of
the beast that's dreaming in caramel
and sugar, the images all of different colors,
but all still painted in something sticky
and serene. Once the laughter finally subsides,
you see the prince emerge sluggishly
from the rotting hide, and as each tuft of fu
disintegrates, you are left with the sullen monarch
before the revolution. Guillotine, guillotine,

where is your lullaby now? What syllables
do you have to comfort us with before
our minds are separated from our flesh? How
many songs can we sing before the anthem
becomes sterile and obsolete? We float
above it all, the screaming crowds who wave
severed fingers piked on pitchforks. You tickle
the underbelly of the beast, and the caramel
turns to powder, the chocolate petrified
before it reaches eager and hungry mouths.

Today's OneWord: Reporter

"And what are you supposed to be?"

Rachel blinked. She stared down at her notepad, then back up at the senator, who was shooting daggers at her. "Um...I'm a reporter, sir. From the Times?"

The senator scoffed. His enormous wrinkled jowls quivered as he sneered at Rachel. "Well, here's your sound byte," he growled. "You can take your precious little newspaper and shove it right up your - "

Monday, November 20, 2017

Tonight's Poet Corner: When It's Cold

When It's Cold
by Belinda Roddie

When it's cold - when the
leaves grow frosty fingers to grip
the rail of the stairwell with, and
the world grows sluggish like a
cold-blooded reptile settling in
a pile of Mother Nature's rags - I find
comfort in your arms, which drape
over me like curtains shielding me
from an ever more intrusive audience.

Take care not to let me shiver, for I
can cause earthquakes and raise
islands along both your skin and mine.
The erosion only keeps our pores open
for so long, and between us, the heat
exchanged could cause smoke if we
rely on too much friction or light
a spark with our quick tongues.

I am not around to hear your lamentations.
I sleep through them, and the dreams
I carry over mountains cry out for milk
and bread while my mouth is a desert
waiting for a storm. They say the last time
it snowed here was twenty thousand years ago,
but the rain is plentiful, and the gutters are
clogged by wet percussion and mud.

It will still be cold when we wake up,
and we will savor it - before the winter
ends quickly. Then, you and I will
separate, for if we cling to one another while
the sun expands, we will fuse together, and
we cannot possibly live as only one person.