I am a super-hero,
fighting off the monsters
that plague you,
knee-deep, as you are,
in the rhetoric spewed forth
by their silken, greasy lips.
I tear at their market-shares
and patented product placement
with my blood-spattered pen,
so quickly they fall
when denied the attention
they scream for.
I duck and weave, avoiding the
terrific armaments of their
immune, I am, being super, and all,
to their mesmerizing, syncopated
Monster bees, asleep at the wheel,
careening ever downward
to the swamp of their own filth,
a filth fed by the swooning of the undying
Oh, how I long for the planet I was born to,
cast away to this place,
long ago dismissed as an ever-present failure
by my long-dead peers.
Never in a million years did I see that coming,
that I would out live the immortal.
So super, I am,
That I can cause a near-hit in my sleep,
missing it, as I do,
the onslaught of seeping fortitude,
delivered endlessly by mindless, mechanical
created by those who never knew you,
and will never care to,