Aquaman and Tarzan Mudwrestle In Space
whether beneath the sea away from the whimsy of Ariel or under dew-filled leaves of most remote jungle far removed from the technology of Shuri, there is always one bad motherfucker, badder even perhaps than that old Mr. Motherfucker, Stagger Lee.
it’s a world of wildest wests if you have biggest and broadest chest with shoulders to boot.
and everybody wants a prom date in a John Hughes sort of a way or maybe nobody wants such a thing in a more Daria sort of a way but there’s always a reason to pump up the volume and to get to pumping iron or something of the sort to get fit, get built, get ready to get shirtless.
sweat was made to drip. pecs should become our new kitchen sink.
baby, back, ribs, set to lick. from now, from here to Eternia, skeletons don’t belong in the closet but should be finger-lickin’ good even if beneath a shroud of slickest skin.
thoughts are seamless
so are divine loincloths
and a suit made for a mythical king
from dream to dream
only the world fades away
destiny, an old friend, is not what we need
every day is in want of a break from the routine
and every aristocrat’s ennui
where is there room for a Walmart in such ancient and anachronistic lands? where can one buy a trident these days? or a longknife? and no PetSmart either to purvey a partner in crime such as Cheetah nor seahorse large enough to the depth charge of the light brigade.
we’re the needles in the hay
we did the math or maybe somebody else did
but they egged us on
happening happened to us
it can happen to you too
until then, we, two, present ourselves.
this world always had designs on us, for us
and who had designs on you?
who made our audience? our kinfolk, our followers?
space is so far from where we’ve been but a spectacle is rather familiar. what we see in you have you ever seen in me? us? what it’s worth being a hero, here and now, awaiting another mission with costume tight and clinging to each muscle? with costume torn and nothing to hide behind but another codename, another secret identity?
at least this Friday night is unlike any before. no Supes, no Bats. it’s us and it’s the mud. the pit. the battle. the one on one of it all is so anticlimactic, I can’t wait til Saturday gets here.
been watching my step ever since I was left opening my eyes to mother and brothers Charlton Heston would be loathe to adore. damn, filthy man, never did much for me. I’m all for aliens and a challenge. I’ll jump universes and cross into other companies for an exit from this world of dull London too far from my realest home.
hungrier now than anything
that can be left on a table.
is today the day when life
will surely be strained?
pulled to the limits of its believability?
do we get theme songs? entrance music? who enters first?
in this corner …
an exhibition match
unparalleled in visual aesthetics
not Conan, not the Shadow, not Dredd
could have so fine-tuned a physique such
as the Lord of the Jungle,
as our half-blood hero and ruler
of the underwater
and none since our vegan victor,
the one and only Buddy Baker – known on Earth 1
as the avatar of the red, Animal Man, has there been one so at one
with the world of beasts, creatures, primacy and instincts.
none since the Lone Ranger have been brought here
has there been one so out of his element.
but, wrestling being what it is, lives for the unsuspected –
long live the surprise.
place your bets
while the contenders
get the oil and get motivated
for Jane for Mera
for the Mangani for Atlantis
pride be what it must but in the end it’s always about a buck or bust. anything can take centerstage with enough talk, spin and a voice built for the bark. it’s a carny life made of cosmic dreams and capitalism has spread far, wide, and beyond the reaches of prime directives. people are products. let them be of some use. heroes are so susceptible to honor. let’s hone that nobility for something much more entertaining. who needs rescuing when there’s a laugh or a horror to be had? having a higher intelligence just means it’s harder to be entertained.