The Ballad Of The Comic Book People
The Ballad of The Comic Book People
Our world is a comic book written by a madman, where all the superheros hide in their caves and the ordinary people have to save the world on their own, where the sky is transparent sometimes and God looks down on us and laughs.
Our tears smudge the ink bordering the panels, and they run together with no discernible order, the heroes and villains forced together in an unholy copulation of colour and words, choked sounds held captive by the ink and pencil chains drawn in for them.
Our footsteps echo in the shadows of the pages, our thoughts illustrated in coloured bubbles and black and white captions, blurry line doodles in our heads, allegorical references to all the little demons we used to idolise and now they eat us quietly alive.
Our eyes gaze out over landscapes in the quiet and sinister cross hatching darkness, and when your hands start to disappear, you change the lighting and it fixes it all, all the nightmares run screeching and dismembered back to the borderlines and the crumpled waste-bin full of slaughtered characters just like you.
Our lives are but a few pages, never more than necessary, can't waste a panel, can't miss a deadline, do you hear me boy? Get it in on time, fix it, kill them off, you don't need the last bit, REVISIONS!! Somehow we end up on the cutting room floor, half coloured and lonely.
Our children are scribbles, half-neglected and unfilled, their outlines faltering sometimes, but never really gone, no matter how the eraser scrapes, its abrasive love can wound, but never kill. We shall survive.
Our homes are boxes, panels and outlines, it's not important to the story, don't worry about it, who's gonna read you, little boy, little scribble. Don't talk down to me, eraser whore. We don't need you.
Our lives are a shaky ink-spattered page, and I guess we all know that. We're all expendable. As the eraser looms again, we think about our fate, our crumpled page. Our lives are over now. No 'to be continued', no 'next issue:'. We're gone now. Goodbye. Close the book and walk away. But never forget. Oh no, you'll never forget.
Our world is a comic book written by a madman, where all the superheros hide in their caves and the ordinary people have to save the world on their own, where the sky is transparent sometimes and God looks down on us and laughs.
Our tears smudge the ink bordering the panels, and they run together with no discernible order, the heroes and villains forced together in an unholy copulation of colour and words, choked sounds held captive by the ink and pencil chains drawn in for them.
Our footsteps echo in the shadows of the pages, our thoughts illustrated in coloured bubbles and black and white captions, blurry line doodles in our heads, allegorical references to all the little demons we used to idolise and now they eat us quietly alive.
Our eyes gaze out over landscapes in the quiet and sinister cross hatching darkness, and when your hands start to disappear, you change the lighting and it fixes it all, all the nightmares run screeching and dismembered back to the borderlines and the crumpled waste-bin full of slaughtered characters just like you.
Our lives are but a few pages, never more than necessary, can't waste a panel, can't miss a deadline, do you hear me boy? Get it in on time, fix it, kill them off, you don't need the last bit, REVISIONS!! Somehow we end up on the cutting room floor, half coloured and lonely.
Our children are scribbles, half-neglected and unfilled, their outlines faltering sometimes, but never really gone, no matter how the eraser scrapes, its abrasive love can wound, but never kill. We shall survive.
Our homes are boxes, panels and outlines, it's not important to the story, don't worry about it, who's gonna read you, little boy, little scribble. Don't talk down to me, eraser whore. We don't need you.
Our lives are a shaky ink-spattered page, and I guess we all know that. We're all expendable. As the eraser looms again, we think about our fate, our crumpled page. Our lives are over now. No 'to be continued', no 'next issue:'. We're gone now. Goodbye. Close the book and walk away. But never forget. Oh no, you'll never forget.
posted by Andrew at 1:56 PM
3 Comments:
Is this a cryptic 'preview' to your book?
No idea. And the money order thing went south, by the way. I'll email you the details later, I gotta run.
Ugh. I hate school.
Poo! If need be, I'll buy from the publisher. . .un-autographed. Oh well.
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