Where's My Superman?

The Monster's within, Knights and Kings,
no use. Pawns against a queen. Black
and white squares, no grey, this or that.

X miles as the crow flies, specific and
defined. Categories. A, B or C. Can't we
be the whole alphabet? Or a sideways 8.

Ripped jeans and muddy t-shirts. Burning
the closet, so as to watch myself burn. A multi-
coloured flame loosened. Just fucking kill it.

Quench it. Stab it. Shoot it. Drown it. Smother
it. Drop it. Poison it. Ram it. Cut it. Decapitate
it. Starve it. Freeze it. Strangle it. End it.

Tumbling with it, endlessly, struggling.
It's hands over my mouth, a silent parasite.
But oh god how I love it. Please. Just end.

An unnatural pain. The colour of another
life, spilling over the top, covering smothering,
Bubbles rising in a pint glass, endlessness.

A long for neon lights, pressed bodies and
asses to grab. For sweet intoxication, for the drop,
for bliss that is life. For flesh against mine.

I get my bedroom, the white light of the internet
and a blank canvas. Where's my fucking red paint?!
Big brother won't give what I deserve. Or need.

A bee stung in the middle of a bee hive, or a
fish that's drowned in water. Columns and piano
legs. Why are they tied down, not liberated.

The greeks had it right. Why do we blot
everything good in the world. Ink against skin
and paper against backs. Smashed glass.

Insert an ambiguous ellipses. The unfinished
epic, the serialised novel still being written.
The pause before the round of applause or
the sentence being read before the execution.