You still gloss them
bound as
newspaper stock.

Ignorant, you pen the lot in
a glut of Anabolic hormones
and tights, crotches irradiated
with the hatch marks
of dynamism, anatomy-

The capes, awkward
and a Golden Age too small,
strangle the voice
of these cut figures,
domesticized heroes.

You think they can only burble,
blowing out speech in amusing
booms of font –
forced ejaculations a spurt of impotence
soapy through your public’s plastic wand,
a hoop of Wertham’s Code trapping the air
of expression in a baser kaleidoscope,
these cleansed bubbles.

Within the security of societal panels,
your garrison mentality, you
justify the muting outcry as need
to protect the young, the impressionable.

The grit,
soil of dreams,
has not been wiped clean,
and with the flood of information,
age has pushed us through
the tended surface like a backed-up sewer,
exposing the world to all its unmentionables,
proofs of humanity your societal machine
flushes away with polish,
ceramic etiquette.

In these catacombs we swim, alligators
hungry for the light of acceptance,
Kirbyesque Mole Men biding time,
waiting for some prophetic fulcrum,
your Jeremiah of our invasion.

Perhaps we stem from a single Crumb
feeding the underground with primal
imagery – ugly men and women
grotesque within the funhouse mirror
starkness of his cartooned Western culture,
an unretouched cast image.

From this, the illustrated squeak
of a young Spiegelman’s Raw-words renders
biography, a Jewish purge quelled by one’s
“natural” order of things, this prejudice
of high and low, cats and mice.

Slowly the form skitters a subtle subversion,
with more surface-artists eluding
the easy caption – Moore questions
the nature of our watchmen, secret
vendetta masked in harmless superhero garb;
Miller retaliates against your 60’s Knight’s tale –
bat-man campy in tv technicolour, red
from the rope burns of Mrs. Manners
and censorship – with his own dark fabliaux,
a dis-telling of old fableminded myths.

Our world and its clowns are now cell-painted
over this Frank noir, the perfect sheen
for a society’s reflexion –
the ink of Goetz, Reaganomics, and
Grenada preserved from twisted media,
the truth as allegory
underneath the Orwellian snouts
of critics unable to smell
the difference...

...who, like
you, look at the cover,
a darkened night window,
and still see a grown man in tights,
poised to fart for your amusement.

2002 -- (c) Frank "damonk" Cormier

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