I caught this morning moonlight's macula, swing-
ing on silken strand where dappled daubs of neon played, a
covert-creviced-crypt-crept caped crusader
hung high upon his rein as if awing
in search of prey, then off, rope disappearing
like a mile of webbing on a skyhook, with some cicada
trying to flee free. The night's invader
stirred with a word, stunned by the mastery of the thing.
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh craven criminal knees here
buckle! and the fury that breaks from thee then, makes thick
reports of stunned miscreants bashed into submission.
No doubt about it: use of guns might bring this fear,
but not the satisfaction as you hear them sick,
or as they fall you see the blood's emission.
A young physics major was bitten
by a radioactive silverfish.
Running amok on walls, he was smitten
by a voracious bibliophilic wish.
Condemned for life to a librivorous diet,
but blessed with the ability to climb
sheer walls in darkness and in quiet,
he longed to pit his talents against crime.
But soft in the belly, leery of the light,
and tending to oleaginously squish
should he be trapped into a fight,
he shunned the spotlight's trapping dish,
and fought without the aid of cops.
Unable to fisticuff with crooks,
he roams the shadows of the shops,
devouring pornographic books.
I hear creakings in the branches, and flapping of great wings.
I try to sleep, but cannot, for the oldest of them sings.
I curse the day the plant blew up and doused us all with rays,
since when I've had to suffer all their struttings and displays.
They used to be a quiet group, a credit to our street,
but now they crawl around in trees and make a noise like "tweet."
They would not use their houses, and were somewhat on the nose,
but we've got them taking baths again, and once more wearing clothes.
Their growing wings and talons did at first seem quite bizarre,
but they are not the only weirdos on the boulevarde, by far.
The Johnsons were a lovely pair, whom we don't see often now,
except the odd occasions when we see them steal a cow.
The farmers seem to not object. Perhaps they sympathize;
or perhaps avoid scaled creatures with laser-beaming eyes.
Jack used to like to play Pontoon, but now he never plays;
if he gets a bit excited, his cards burn at his gaze.
He and Amy live in caves, which is cheap accomodation.
They simply look at somewhere and create a perforation.
And since the Greenings live in trees, and Smith floats in the sky,
there's a lot of houses up for sale, but nobody will buy.
At least Syd Smithwick calls, and stays round for a chat.
He looks a normal person still, short and dark and fat,
and he gossips of his doings, but you can't tell when he'll call
because he comes in unannounced, just drifting through the wall.
Another one we don't see much is old Hercules Magneto.
He comes around from time to time, but always incognito.
When first the plant exploded he had quite a trying time
attracting any iron, and clogged by metallic grime;
but he seemed to get it all controlled, and left our little town.
I hear he used his talents and attracted some reknown.
We're a little proud of Herc's success, and invite him for a cup,
but when he comes these costumed weirdos always beat him up!