It's 2 in the morning, and I find I have written a poem. Poooeeeemmmmmm. Actually I have written more than one, but I am *fairly* sure this one makes sense!

Amanda Waller

There are no pearls
for Amanda Waller
scattered across a dark alley
because you don't waste money on symbolism
if you've got kids to feed

because you've still got kids to feed
and you don't get to bring them on overseas training interludes
baby carriage stowed away in the dark
in the luggage hold
beside you
Mama, are we there yet?
Well, maybe you shoulda gone before we left
to Japan
for Ninja school

there are no vermin in the horror stories you know
in the worst ones
bogeymen forgoing attics and hiding inside acronyms
and pale, smiling faces
and a tv screen's promises
and paperwork
and judging eyes

and the tabloids don't care unless you're
so you've got to write the story yourself
uncover your own resolution
and bring focus to the moral:
The world's a Bitch
but Amanda Waller knows her own.
So this is another poem I wrote last night. On reflection I think it is okay!


The thing about
is he didn't choose the name

that was Lois,
noticing the symbol he wore
alien hieroglyph
and translating it awkwardly into language
she could understand

and he didn't say
he wore the costume
ridiculous, homemade, bright
because he wanted one part of himself untranslated
untwisted painfully by human expectations

he was too polite
or Lois didn't listen
or there were no words in the only language they shared
or Lois knew she was there first, her people
mapping every space
of her world
nothing left for him to own


odditycollector: Supergirl hovering in black silhouette except for the red crest. Cape fluttering. Background is a roiling, raining sky. (Default)

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