O when gammy gamete of his gamma mamma
and Sellarfield spoff from his pappy’s photonfried scrotum
seeded the Caeser of our replacers,
the Mohammed of the Muties;
when biology’s genius botchology doodled Salvadordarwinny winners,
Magneto’s mamma’s doctor had ultrasound butcher’s ,
then the doc gollygoshed,
‘You’ve got the ruthless idol to a whole evil brotherhood
of Rugrats of Rutherford up there, my dear!’
And the doctor called his doctor,
who called the police, who called Captain Beany,
who called federal forces – ‘fraidycrats who fingered
an all-time rut in resources – and called Supercynic,
who didn’t buy it and b’sides had no pro-human bias,
but decades later mentioned it in bed with Missus
Martian Manhunter, who called Martian Manhunter,
who was in a gay bar on Mars, hunting a good Martian man.
But some little green queen who’d probed down Brighton in the past,
flying low, cruising in his youhoo.F.O., a humane Martian
called the Earth Embassy, who called the United Nations,
who called a conference of capitulation, and now all call Magneto
Maestro di Mondo Mucho Magnifico Neato,
But I know me too well, and if my wish had been written in redshift
for express delivery, my cosmic order primordialed,
if back to the Planck Epoch the Royal Mail could retroject a plea,
addressed to an aeon or so after God bled light districts,
when Her celestial storge was in its prime prestarry
(before expansion of the Creator’s
postnatal depression made midget granite mcguigan monadnocks
seem more high and soft than God)
- yeah, if I hadn’t might as well flushed it down a blue elliptical
galaxy, if my prayer had a prayer of
not being under Her radar (all the others were),
but it had aired on God’s baby monitor back when She suppliied
6 daycare, then off my knees, airgonaut with an acierated heart,
I’d be annealed a steely manly overman of steel.
But I’d most likely cheapen that mantle purpureal,
coz if Magneto was me, he’d be a minnow
who’d squander those meaty mutie superpowers,
one of the four fundamental forces
falling straight from gracerightinto
purloining perv shelves,
jamphlets and jugmags and skinzines and the Daily Inthealtogether,
cumics such as the Creamo and the Randy sucked out of the pornershop
letterbox by a grumblemagnetter, dirty old pied piper of purdy paper
pulling flat stacked girls from grumbelows on a metallokineticowinnow
by their pierced creases.
Like some poltergeist tealeaf
who can’t decline his deadman’s diamondcutter,
I’d be Magneto
bathos had a rainmacked beckoner of centrefolds’ staples,
notso twinkle twinkle Stan Leethal story
of the Fuehrer as Uri Geller on roids.
But now I’ve wondered what you are, Magneto, finito.
Raised by repulsion from the nearest or attraction to the furthest
pole, over lode ranges levitating loxygenlessly, His Hypergrav Grace.
Is it the spirit of Ed Headrich, his frisbeing free from his body,
tho’ underwhelmed by his halo, an aureate Aerobie?
Or is it a crimson crow? No: Magneto.
If the posthuman is a Pandora’s box,
he’s its inexorable crowbar, Evolution’s new broom.
Natural Selection a sovereign reinstated
by muta-über new bar,
master who has no call for crowbars or keys, tinopeners, boltcutters,
of knurling or bending his mag-knees-toes when lifting
marines outta degaussed exosuits by the scruff of their dogtags
- let them hover till they hang!
a B-52, curlynealing a jet bomber on th’end of his index,
coz round his pinkie imperious Magneto twists
electrons’ spins and orbits.
Awesummoning electromagnetic pulses,
big bogoff SHA-KOOM! shockwaves,
that bring Nato’s whirlybirds of prey, chinooks, to book
(e.g. the ‘Book of the Devil Valley Master’ from 4th century BC China).
And as for the F22 Raptor
- watch out, that’s a brandnew…Oh, scrapt war-
bird. Steel its Achilles’ heel,
mankind’s collective military might
humbled into a junkyard on high,
a giant junk gyre crinklin’ and creakin’,
scraping and chiming as all modernity metallurgic
is mashed about the ambit of the carcrusher eye
of his chrome Charybdis in the sky.
Vast and vortical vectorfield realised in lithe steel,
seething silver stratospriral o’ swirly enswallowment
straddles Megiddo, with accretion disc of armoured ooze
like a platinum worldwreath,
but no condolence means Magneto.
No large hadron collider had to collude in
this inhaling metalmouth of a hellmouth,
where to winged lemming death
magnetoceptive real birds might be misled.
It'd magnettickle my ethmoid bone,
my lapsed biocompass’d soak up teslas and oersteds
till lagnetism of hysteresis heated
my gone cold prehistoric sense of direction,
my bearings on fire f’hours
after his fingers apocalypclickt
a billion ballbearings
to buckshot the firmament.
Twinkle twinkle Stan Leethal story
of the Fuehrer as Uri Geller on roids.
Overlord lovely in a cape chromarinated
in shells of murex, wearing unionsuit exterior pants
(his are a rhapsody in rhodopsin)
over longjohns of magenta spandex.
And brightred buckethead
helmet, which deflects ESPeeping by pilgarlic psychic Prof X,
coz genetic raggy dolls’ rex transcends Brand X!
Tinker , tailor? Tut, I wanna be the Fuehrer as Uri Geller on roids,
supernally surfin’ Sheffield steel shoah of swarming saucepans,
shaving blades and stanleeknives and saws and Saabs
and copcars and ironore meteorites. Also, the surgical
instruments of the street and the shanks of medical science;
sets of stainless steakspears of infomercial provenance;
scraggy skyscrapers got by the girders , horizontally hurled
as if Godzilla’s ghost improvised 9/11esque javelins.
Magneto’s only weakness is that he repels fridge magnets,
and same re pelmatic neodymium of toy taikonauts for spacewalks.
No matter when he can magicnetise
fridges to fly with a flock of killer falling filing cabinets
in an ironfilingsswirling firmament!
Whether noble or base, the metal in everything mangled
into motion at his megalomagnetic fingerclick,
raising a scrapmetal maelstrom thru mere cerebration,
which shines retribeautifully
as it veers quadrivially at some veerlocity,
on fourwayspliting beeline to align with
recycled hails of sharpnel shellcases,
as well as virgins to internal ballistics,
all the bashful bullets never barrelistically trajected,
yet volitating with a vengeance to
Washington and Salem, Berlin and Genosha.
All thru the all too homo crapien weeks of human weakness,
I wished upon faraway far ago farty fled fusion,
upon Polaris (star that wags Baby Bear,
not Wanda and Quicksilver's stepsis ),
upon any old alien civilisation’s screwy sun/s,
upon colossal conkedout spinfernos and neutron glowwormholes,
but God must have gone fishin’.
Or is She still a few
puffedup predicates prefixed ‘omni-‘ short of a Godhead,
still an interstellarmedium cadet after Her pre-Bigbang epidural?
Or just washing Her dark matted hair, God a Rapunzel
with superstring bob I cannot dream up like Jacob?
A powerlessnesscrazed petition went PEYOWM!
outta my polarised soul, grim and swift as sylviacidal dew,
or rush hour reaper atop an atrous cheetah,
skeletal chevalier shepherding spirits
of manic street pizza.
O supplication newselfseeking
approprihated my full steam squirminmyownskin
for a reaction mass,
'swhy seekanddestroy geekandfanboy's
rogation rightly rocketed… Right
into the overriding white noise
of God’s Rice Crispies, madding crowd of cosmic
microwave background radiation.
Suppose I’m stuck with stealth seething,
finding myself sorely wanting, sorely needing
the confidence boost of being homo superior,
which is what my warp factor wish was for.
G’arn God, givvus mutie superpowers
like a registered trademark of Marvel Comics,
and not just metahuman partytricks,
coz I wanna be the instantaneous ironsmith
himself, metal’s mesmeric animator, demiurgic gremlin
mentally meddling with enemies' mechanics,
ballonanimauling their oilderricks.
Ferroshistin’ scifi miracle terrorism
at Magneto’s theatrical fingerclick.
Major Beer Belly
assessed the situation
Ms Bitchy was there
with wolverine hair
armed with his favorite libation
The bank had been robbed
by Thomas the Blob
the people were pinned to the floors
Bobby the Slob, restraining the mob
Tom's sidekick, because he was bored
Story be told, for the strong and the bold
the rescue, now a crime channel movie
Ms Bitchy was twitchy, and overly itchy
as doin what had to be done
The Major reacted, the script was redacted
the words and the deeds, so unclean
suffice it to say, Tom and Bob, died that day
the crime photos, burned at the scene
I dumped SuperGirl because her boobs are hard as rocks.
They are literally harder than concrete cinder blocks.
I should've known they were hard because bullets bounce off of them.
Breasts that aren't soft should be a crime because it is so grim.
When I broke it off, she made my life a living hell
She burned down my house and pissed in my well.
If you think that was bad, you won't believe the other things that she did.
She lied to Social Services, she said that I abused my son and I lost my kid.
She put an end to my sex life when she used her laser beams to castrate me.
My manhood has been taken and no jail will hold the bitch so she's going free.
My life has fallen to pieces, I would give anything for some Kryptonite.
I would also want Batman's armor suit so I could kill that bitch in a fight.
Don't even think about dating SuperGirl, believe me when I say that it is no fun.
If you date her and break it off, you'd better have a Kryptonite bullet in your gun.
the Ethereal Wonder
and I am her trusty sidekick
Her obsequious protégé,
I chop at the shadows
of the baddies
and glass ceilings
to which she delivers
swift kicks and merciless punches.
In the Dream Mobile,
my eyes are at her hand
on the stick shift,
her thumb flipping the
oil slick switch and pressing it—
the sounds of cars screeching and
careening off cliffs
fail to deter me from imagining
the gloved hand in mine.
Off she darts into the fray,
and I hear
the shocked public
and the narrator expound,
“Faster than men less qualified but
more likely to get the job,
as powerful as histories
of suffragettes and debutantes,
able to leap over the confines
of impressed domesticity
in a single bound!”
Into her arms fall
the thankful victims
at the last second,
and the baleful embrace
gropes at thin air
where the Ethereal
Wonder once was.
She receives thanks
with a wave of a gloved
hand and bounties
She is no damsel in distress,
she is no mere love interest,
and to be her partner
in this great dangerous adventure
will be the most heroic story
And perhaps one day she will need saving,
and I will rise to the occasion—
owing my strength, wisdom, and ability
to all she has ever taught me
of being a hero.
There skulks a vigilante called Scumbrella
w/ swashbuckling bartitsu umbrawler moves.
1/2 werrr, 1/2 weyyy, a mentally unstable fella,
whose motley movements defy fitzes & sleuves.
At the dead of night, at the scene of a crime,
off scofflaw stage brollycrook hooks youths,
pimpled pitbulls yet to gnaw bone of hard time,
hoodies he hooks into patella in the face,
then jabs bumbleshoot at their custardpuss spines!
As Mez Pops put UK airspace in its place,
gamp glider Scumbrella l/ accipiter swoops
at trainee mugger, now 'Mum'-yeller auto-Maced
(epiphora of cowardice). Trenchcoat cape dupes
Bash Street chavs w/ shadowplay abillowing,
blots out fullmoon for pack of coyot' yoots,
further blinded by brollyspokes set twirling
by borgne majorette of a mean Gene Kelly,
crimefighting in the rain - what a wonderful feeling
to flaconade ferals w/ ferule of umbrelly,
or on evildoer's cupola springshut subumbrella
l/ panoramic facehugger - that should quell any
scally's scritch should Scrumbr'a skirl Rihanna
a cappella (upon umbrellairguitar, a wee noodle).
Since squabashing tall 10-year-old who twocked Fruitellas,
he's sasquatch-scarce once sirens fill twitchells.
Spiceheads & dratchells expand gangland slang glands
at groggy Z-doggs who dogpiled in IRL,
now duffedup triphazard to any backsteet errand-
boys 'n' girls, runners 'n' riders. Digladiation
Oswald Cobbleoddjob-style done, t'Umbrella Stand
pub a heifer of a zephyr his transportation.
No time to spare, as sirens have been replaced
by ambivalent armed response unit's simunition,
pyongyang of bullites onomatopiercing space
stealth deadened in penultimate comicstrip panel.
Later...at pub w/ his have-a-go antihero mates:
Pteropine Man fresh from frightener in the ginnel,
louring at being mistook for that Yank upstart bat
again; the noble Paedophile-ophobe on sabbatical,
by Yewtree interceptions burntout, Madeleine McCatt
softer focus of offduty searches ; nursing no Stella,
Captain Norfolk Black Turkey Magic sat
w/ an Adnams, Charles Random de Berenger's
seminal ruffianbusting manual sole topic
of convo for the Cap'n's workfriend, Scumbrella.
Snickets of recidivism precipitation now licks,
but in phonebox where, l/ Ms. Zellweger,
supers flaunt granny pants leans lost brolly ironic.
The truth about being a superhero, is that only certain people know when to call us at exactly the right time. When the world is about to break into chaos and when the cities need us to be there.
But this isn’t exactly the job I thought it was going to be. I have devoted myself to being the best I can be for the people of my city, for freedom and justice, and for you. And for the first few months of my job, I was everywhere.
People knew my name, I was in every newspaper, children looked up to me, put me on their lunchboxes, they wanted to be me…
They say heroes aren’t born, they’re made. But I was born! Of the kindness of my mother, and the bravery of my father to create this image of strength. I am a superhero! I can fly, can you fly? Can you wear this suit? Can you handle the responsibility?
Not all of my city wanted a superhero. Some of them became the villains. And it’s not like I can’t handle a few bad guys, but sometimes, the citizens are my kryptonite.
Sometimes they don’t want me, one day they praise me and the work that I’ve done, the next day, they say they don’t need another hero, I’m just another problem, they say “Leave us the way that you found us: broken. And not needing anybody around to fix it.”
But I’m not perfect either. I can fly, but gravity still brings me back to earth, I can run, but not from my problems, I can carry cars with my two hands. But the weight of the world still sits on my shoulders.
The day they told me to leave the city, I reminded myself that if I harmed any one person, broke my promise to be the sole keeper of freedom and justice for all. That I would hang up my cape and quit.
And I did. I became human again, I am not as strong as you made me out to be. You told me I wasn’t needed. And soon after the villains had returned and they were shouting for me to save them again.
I thought you didn’t want me, stop it, I’m no hero, I’m just a person. Please, my powers only do so much. Do you still need me to save you? I’m just an alien, a science experiment, a mutant, a drawing in a comic book.
I am not your superhero! I can’t do this anymore! It was you who pushed me away, you fear my powers, you fear me. But I didn’t do anything wrong.
Please… Just let me go. You are the heroes now. Just let me go.