Superheroes
I've started my summer project (one of many). This is scene 1 of a post-super-heroic narrative poem that I'm writing. It does not have a title, as yet, and there are a few lines that i would rather have be picture-words than words... i think you'll know which when you come to them. Your feedback is, as always, appreciated.
A disregarded bar beneath a bridge
(o muse i ask a dozen heros' strength)
begins our tale, though it had neither length
nor breadth beyond the absolute of need.
Upon a stool, within a wretched cape
emblazoned with golden symbol spent
of all its meaning, sat a humble man
who once was proud. He never would repent
the days when once he took the eyes upon
himself of those who never stare or gaze
but at the ground, where they once more had gone
upon the passing of a couple days.
His cape! It once had corners true and square;
No longer. It was tattered everywhere.
Though certainly he paid no mind
to any guests, they minded him,
and whispering among themselves,
they dared each other, "You would win!
He never got his powers back!
Why else would he be sitting there?
I never saw him fly again,
or save a woman, child, or
do anything but sit and drink!"
Though none believed it, all agreed,
and dwindled deeper in their cups
and dared themselves to try their luck.
When he was blurry and
drunkenly belching he
staggered among them mis-
took them for fiends or for
devils from time when such
things were so neat --
Tidily once did the
villainy fit to the
hero exactly as
hero would have; when a
costume had meant what a
costume should mean
meant nuts to them.
They shot the shit,
and call'd 'im "friend,"
and wouldn't hit,
but would provoke,
as if to prove
to anyone
his cowardice
and he
was weak
and used
his strength
OOH!
OW!
NO!
AAH!
POW!
BAM!
WACK!
CRASH!
A disregarded bar beneath a bridge
(o muse i ask a dozen heros' strength)
begins our tale, though it had neither length
nor breadth beyond the absolute of need.
Upon a stool, within a wretched cape
emblazoned with golden symbol spent
of all its meaning, sat a humble man
who once was proud. He never would repent
the days when once he took the eyes upon
himself of those who never stare or gaze
but at the ground, where they once more had gone
upon the passing of a couple days.
His cape! It once had corners true and square;
No longer. It was tattered everywhere.
Though certainly he paid no mind
to any guests, they minded him,
and whispering among themselves,
they dared each other, "You would win!
He never got his powers back!
Why else would he be sitting there?
I never saw him fly again,
or save a woman, child, or
do anything but sit and drink!"
Though none believed it, all agreed,
and dwindled deeper in their cups
and dared themselves to try their luck.
When he was blurry and
drunkenly belching he
staggered among them mis-
took them for fiends or for
devils from time when such
things were so neat --
Tidily once did the
villainy fit to the
hero exactly as
hero would have; when a
costume had meant what a
costume should mean
meant nuts to them.
They shot the shit,
and call'd 'im "friend,"
and wouldn't hit,
but would provoke,
as if to prove
to anyone
his cowardice
and he
was weak
and used
his strength
OOH!
OW!
NO!
AAH!
POW!
BAM!
WACK!
CRASH!