We are the humourless children of Darth Vader,

stuck in a pattern

of self loathing and flowing envy,

the darkness seeping out

from the sore

we keep hidden, under layers

of guilt and delusion and the odd

pair of cartoon socks, one size

fits all and opinions we hope are the same;

we are the grave and grim,

the forbidding and the forbidden,

we are the humourless offspring

of Darth Vader.

 

We are the children of a deaf Batman

and the surprising talent of The Joker,

our D.N.A. we share reluctantly

with an ageing and slowly blighted

by memory loss Clark Kent

and we find no time to visit

Wonder Woman or Captain America

in their graves, their own sub plot

in the ground a mile from our doors

as we retain our sombre delightful

repose and ask for the world

from every megalomaniac with a remote control

and microwave dinner, burnt and dried out husk.

We are the children of the damned

inconsequential and the parents

of the sick footloose and fancy

that, the threatened grin

baring teeth and open hands,

and Tarzan beats his breasts

and does the same to the offspring

of television, mass media and opportunity,

twenty five hour scrolling news,

we are the children of a bored dictator

laughing, screaming and digesting us all; silently

mocking and with gravel toned voice,

for we are the kids of neglect

with Darth Vader for a dad.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016.