without design or purpose Batman haunted the fibre and breath of my emergent childhood.   He was the thrill of possible action and the immobility of grim tragedy, both rolled up in the same moment.   I saw the shows on a neighbour’s tv, I read the b&w reprint books in trance, I placed the hues of blue in the jigsaw puzzles, I wore the costume to explore the possibility.   Then I found the comics – imported, second hand, scattered numbers.   A whole literature, a whole syntax, a whole lineage.   A whole history deepened like a pocket – everything could be ‘read’ through history.   I grew new emotion through Infantino’s skies and lines, I spoke discernment through Adam’s hands and brow, I smelt the docks of O’Neill’s scenes, I tipped the opportunities of Sprang’s angles.




                in the cities
                the walls of shadows
                receded from the page


                the bay was foggy
                the bridge lights
                hung – from overhead to

                the other shore –

                there were solitary
                hills with a small tree that
                reached over the

                boroughs and districts

                the ceiling was bottle green
                the light was a triangle
                and Batman paused

                under his cowl




                                                                              the Bat-parent

                                                                during the entire fourth flight
                                                                Robin was silent, ‘but then
                                                                what if …’ bracing his knees against
                                                                the wall under the sill Batman, ‘still
                                                                you haven’t …’ hung out locked
                                                                by Robin’s arms and, ‘if that were …’
                                                                caught the toddler falling, ‘even’ –
                                                                whump! – ‘then it …’ from the eighth
                                                                floor transfixed by the, ‘so it isn’t …’
                                                                red roof of the church looking,
                                                                ‘yes …’ like a floor




                                                                                                the silent night
                                                                                                of the Batman

                                                                                   even while they carried
                                                                                   their gift-wrapped parcels
                                                                                   and looked to each other
                                                                                   with smiles of belief
                                                                                   the shop signs hummed
                                                                                   against the dark-marbled fronts

                                                                                   while above them the quiet floors
                                                                                   of stone-framed windows
                                                                                   looked east looked south
                                                                                   the same in an ink-black sky

                                                                                   enough to write a novel
                                                                                   in a single sitting
                                                                                   enough to hold a fleet of stars
                                                                                   above the skyline taxiing slowly

                                                                                   then the sky turns ink-green
                                                                                   the rooftop gathers ink-blue attention
                                                                                   and leaps without step
                                                                                   or swing through the glass
                                                                                   and cornice of city vistas and breeze
                                                                                   to shadow the guilt
                                                                                   to alley the share
                                                                                   to streetlight the fear
                                                                                   and river the rose
                                                                                   cast high and wide to the stars until

                                                                                   marzipan fingers reach
                                                                                   across the ink-purple sky
                                                                                   and marshmallow lights

                                                                                   go out




                             the Batman had kept
                             a roof-top vigil
                             for so long
                             staring into
                             the top-floor window
                             at the over-coated men

                             that the night sky had turned
                             red-vermillion red
                             and the Batman himself
                             was now eighty feet tall
                             face to face with the window

                             moonlight edged
                             his shoulder and forehead
                             and his cape flowed upwards
                             behind his unmoving cowl





                                                in 1966 Batman was costumed
                                                in a pink and sky-blue world

                                                by 1968 he stood on buildings
                                                under bottle-green skies

                                                by 1971 he was also hooded
                                                in the black and yellow 40s

                                                by 1973 his brow cape and hands
                                                did the talking

                                                in 1986 he retired
                                                and the world filled with beige and traffic





                                                                                                              stands on a

                                                                                                              his cape
                                                                                                              standing out


                                                                                                              there are no people
                                                                                                              in the buildings

                                                                                                              or on the streets
                                                                                                              just the moon






                                            I stood upon the rooftop

                                            the great stage of dissent
                                            the great stage of disclosure

                                            but all my enemies
                                            stood silent like buildings

                                            but I stood upon the rooftops




            as Batman
            he could


            on the OUTSIDE –

            the tower is
            a landscape
            made vertical –

            at the top –

                     on the pointed roof –

            were thugs
            who beat him
            down with …

                     sleeping gas! –

            he lifted
            into space –

            nothing to hold onto
            but his identity –

            as he caught hold
            of the hour hand
            at one o’clock

            cape lifted
            legs reaching he
            hung above

            the cars stretched
            riddled and alive





                                                                  running stiffly

                                                                       awkward angle
                                                                  with the buildings as

                                                                  the previous night’s
                                                                  ash is swept out




                                              Midnight Conference

                                the Batman leaned –
                                            both hands –
                                on the desk

                                the paper was passed
                                to him

                                his cape billowed out
                                behind him

                                as he took it
                                he cast a red

                                on the yellow wall




                                                                                                in clear
                                                                                                oil air

                                                                                                the sky is always
                                                                                                the buildings

                                                                                                the Boy Wonder
                                                                                                with glass eyes
                                                                                                points away

                                                                                                to the Batsignal
                                                                                                the Batman
                                                                                                holds the steering wheel
                                                                                                staring ahead

                                                                                                the light gleams
                                                                                                over his oily skin
                                                                                                and fleshface





                                on the crowded street

                                me,” – and a guitar strummed
                                       from a natural to a
                                                  seventh –

                      her brown shoes
                      stood on the angled street and
                      in jangled
                                clanging piano runs
                      Batman swooped down from the dark
                                rooftops and
                      stood with his cloak flapped ‘round him




a small group of people stepped out of the registry office.   Clouds passed over the sun for a minute.   The party split up.   Some got into a car and said goodbye.   Others walked over to the bus stop.   The street was quiet.   The bride glanced up and noticed the Batman perched on a ledge on the old office buildings.   There was a cloud overhead.   He had yellow eyes.




                  at midday the Batman walked across the square
                  his blue cloak billowed once

                  some of the people ate fruit
                  some of them stopped their children from falling in the fountain
                  some said he had white eyes




                                even though it was late
                                Saturday afternoon
                                and the sky was
                                dirty yellow and
                                even though there were only
                                telegraph poles to swing from still
                                Batman swooped down
                                to scoop Linda Paige –
                                who had fallen into a dream
                                like a mannequin –
                                from the path of the
                                tall tall truck




            the batarang hit
            the knuckle split
            the fingers flew
            the gun of the
            thug who

            in the orange air
            brown suit and tie
            was rather thinking
            of the futility of life’s




                                we play a game
                                while covered in oil costumes
                                I the solver
                                you the foiler
                                squeaking and clinging
                                as we move the pieces
                                the Batman
                                and the Riddler




                           fir trees

                Batman jumped       WHOOSH
                from the car falling
                from the cliff and falling apart
                           but really

                there was a raspberry
                ice lolly sky and vanilla
                on the horizon





                                      whoosh marks from Batman’s cape
                                          in the red red sky





                                                      the bright
                                                      yellow world

                                                      ran Batman
                                                      rising out of

                                                      BATMAN his head
                                                      locked in the great

                                                      cape held out
                                                      behind him




                                              Let’s Go

                                left arms swung outwards
                                as they ran

                                under the orange moon
                                capes unfurled

                                their heads reached
                                through the oily night

                                with white eyes




                strands as thick as rope
                tangle the limbs and
                cape of the Batman
                which pull and crease as

                     the eight legs
                no escape can’t move
                     and six eyes
                chin in neck grimace
                of the monster advances
                but one hand is still free
                a batarang still thrown




                                          Statue of Liberty

                                not that the assailant stood
                                on the rim of her crown

                                and shot at the Batman secured
                                ‘round her upstretched arm

                                not that the bullet grazed the arm and –
                                          was that flesh
                                          under the shards of stone? –

                                but that her right brow was
                                          ever so slightly




                                                          lost cape

                                  on the yellow boards of the jetty
                                            under the pink sky

                                  Batman had snagged
                                  his assailant                reaching
                                  far ahead with a fishing rod

                                            aghh but the prey
                                  in a green suit and question marks
                                  who had effortlessly reached back
                                  and guided the rod’s cast
                                  was actually the Batman




               even though the light
               behind the smashed glass
               as the Batman crashed in
                         was lemon

               fear was painted white
               and blue across their
               elbows and shoulders their
               hair and hats and creases

               it was all over
               the Joker’s face




                                   The Batline

            even while the Batman
            pulled – his whole weight
            folded back from the edge
            of the water –

            and Robin wholly relied on
            the foot of rope between them
            as though he were deep
            out in the lake

            the autumn trees and grass
            on the far shore remained





                                          short eyes: orange
                                          street lamps
                                          iron puddles

                                          soon eyes:
                                          car lights 5:30

                                          smart eyes:
                                          brush the ankles

                                          crown eyes:
                                          golden paper and
                                          green eyes

                                          arching eyes:
                                          reindeer’s eyes
                                          Batman’s eyes

                                          coat of snow
                                          crate of sharp eyes




                                          it was


                      because the Batman
                      stood high on the cornice
                      by the blackened chimney
                      looking over the city
                      deep grey shrouded in
                      fathomless dark blue

                                … only

                      that the sky was deep pink
                      behind the apricot moon






                right in the middle of the wide open space
                between late-Victorian apartment buildings
                where the avenues and streets acutely dissect
                           on the one side
                and the right-angled 1960s canyon of higher business
                           on the other
                two hundred and seventy feet up will you
                never learn Riddler there is nowhere you can
                show yourself that is safe from my happenstance




                                          I am the Riddler
                                          whatever I say do or think

                                          people just don’t quite get
                                          they think it’s a test

                                          sure that the emperor
                                          has the finest clothes

                                          I remain in green and
                                          covered in question marks




                                          Batman 168

                                on a late Saturday afternoon
                                the Batman was already tired

                                and high up in the redbrick building
                                the will to see the way through the fight

                                was lost and
                                he succumbed

                                to hang in the air awhile with the broken shards of glass
                                above Infantino’s languid city




                                the Penguin’s trap

                                “at last
                      you have stepped into my trap”
                                as the Batman fell and fell
                      into the yellow light let open by the trap
                                door arms wide open
                      his cowl resting on his cape a pillow
                                tired and exhausted
                      he gave up to the fall and relaxed




                                     umbrella duel

                           but why do we do this
                           the Batman thinks to himself
                           but no – too late – he has
                           forgotten the parry
                           his cape crumpled
                           across his shoulders
                           like a fallen orchid
                           does not flow and express
                           fine truths anymore

                           the Penguin however
                           has held his cigar poised
                           between two gloved fingers ready
                           for its proper time and
                           jabbed without thought or dress
                           as fine as the carnation
                           he insisted on wearing
                           in his lapel this morning





                     from sleep
                                   dream about to fight someone
                                                   poke my fingers in his eyes
                                   couldn’t control a class
                     even when angry
                                   from looking for meaning
                                                              when writing
     drove 150 miles
                                                   nothing magical
                     no gorges of grey cloud
                                   to brace my fresh and steely view
                     sunny day
                                   people stupid
                     all acting lost to their wondrous nature
                                                   I, tired
                     and lost to my wondrous nature through judgement
                                                   stupid stupid stupid


                                                      ~ ^o^ ~


                                                              the Batman
                                                   is on a mission and a vow
                     absorbed and meticulous
                                   in every activity
                                                   the vow to strike fear
                     the mission to make justice
                                   even if he has to do it himself
     all without knowing his wondrous nature
                                                   at all
                     which cause his shadows and nemeses
                                                              to arise
                                   manifest and garish
                                                   askance and twilight-mirrored across town
                     the Joker – his freedom and adjustment
                                   denied and let wild
                                                   the Riddler – his doubt and guilt
                                   refused and shot with worm
     the Penguin – his child and hurt
                                                   abused and reviled by hope
                     the Catwoman – his love and beauty
                                                                      un-held and awkward to speak

                                   he climbs the outside of buildings
                                                              stupid stupid stupid




                                                                      LET’S GO!

                                   shouted Robin with
                      a little too much enthusiasm

                                   but the Batman said nothing
                      and waited just two seconds then

                                   deep breath




                           jagged panel

                           swung out from the
                           metal girders –
                                   legs gasping for air –
                           the last days
                           of the Batman

                           good grief the
                           heat lightning
                           struck the
                           high voltage wire
                           from the lime
                           green room





                           at the height of both their swings
                           suspended in mutual apexes

                           it wasn’t so much that the Catwoman
                           slammed the Batman into disarray

                           but that her legs were long
                           outstretched and bare and that her boots her toes pointed

                                   just touched
                                   his arm
                           that made him fall into a dream




                      frowned the face and cowl
                      of the Dynamic Duo as people
                      made for home around them
                      and the grim realisations of buildings
                      rose behind them under the
                      dirt-office evening sky

                      in the dark of the Bat Cave
                      the determination whitened
                      the walls in the shape of a
                      Bat Shadow but it wasn’t until
                      four the following evening
                      that the shadows on the walls

                      their point of realisation




       I don’t know what to do …

       … I will be the strong one
       I won’t let it affect me I will always be
              quiet and secret
creating wonders never to behold in the night of day

       all to dampen the echo
                     the abandonment
                            the pointlessness

              absorb it and
              give form to it
              through my constancy
              I – will – be – constant

       and hope that will be enough –
              the cowl amid
              the swirling cape





                                Batman stepped right past
                cape billowing one wing furled over the other

                                between apartment block
                cornice and rooftop on empty space across the wide street

                                a mission in mind
                on the other side of town under the orange moon




                           the ghosts of Gotham past
                           haunt the streets busy at night

                           in topcoats and swirling beards
                           they buy the papers and read all about it

                           going about their business under the moonlight it is
                           only the Batman realises that he is dead




                                              capes flying

                                when a
                giant radioactive rat
                                rose from the river
                                Batman and Robin
                their soulless boots – legs braced ready –
                                towards the creature’s flank

                                but the size
                                of the rat
                made it freeze of movement
                                              like a painting
                                and its black-eyed realisation also
                                              froze the
                                              Duo such that their feet never connected
                                no matter
                                              how hard they pushed






                                          down at
                           the waterside the ropes
                           stretch and ease around the posts

                                          the uptown
                           skyline rises white against
                           the ink-wash sky

                                          and as the
                           Batmobile stands parked stage right
                           all of the action seems merely incidental


                                          the profile
                           of the administrator rises
                           encephalitic in scheme from dark collar

                                          eyebrows poised
                           to take over the world forefinger
                           hesitant on tiny hand


                                          but no scheme
                           takes account of the impossible architecture
                           of the moon locked in horizon

                           all the build of endeavour
                           and all the space of no movement




                                running through the park
                                the low moon cast a giant

                                white Bat-Shadow all over
                                the side of the hill up ahead –

                                he could run up it
                                he could run through it





                I’ve fallen into a whirlpool
                created by an oil-dark tornado
                whiplashed through the haemoglobin sky

                I will spread my cape
                and throw my arms wide
                reaching allwhere with still fingers
                my utility belt is useless
                I need to think deeply in my cowl
                that the ears stick up to no avail

                                of course
                that’s the answer, it’s easy when you know how
                my eyes look downwards
                                and I travel down through the whirl
                                and remember to hold my breath




                                          it is the cowl
                                evinces the realisation in the
                                          mould of brow

                                          it already looks
                                in the direction of the green glove
                                          pointing beyond

                                          to the waves
                                of cloud above the skyline
                                          make his eyes

                                          blank when
                                he contemplates deeply and throws his
                                          shadow ogre-ly

                                          against a wall
                                the action then is succinct and

                                          to queer
                                the obstacle before it even reaches:
                                          a maturity




                casing out an area
in NYC a small square
                                a widened sidewalk before
                                a Civic Building
                where I have my strange fights
                                of foil and counter(feit?):
                                              a street-height flagpole
                                diagonal over a bakery (historic building
                set at slight angle to the rest of the street)
                                good to get over the traffic, let’s see,
                                              a higher flagpole opposite
                                              above the clock
                                                              where I shall arrive
                                                                                 on time – HA!
                                              the perspectives are right and recede
                                                              through purple plane
                                                                                 and blue flank
                                                              I look to find the name of the streets
                                              but there are too many signs
                                                              I don’t know how to
                                                                                 pronounce them and ‘anyway
                                                                                              ‘is it all just
                                                                                                            a dream?’




                al ways
                on     a
                c u rve
blocks of building arise from the Batman
                decoding to Robin
                                the lives of modern civilisation
                despite all dialogue
                                but using all appearance

                                              the duo point
                                like retrievers
                ever on a cornice ever by chimney where
                                                              reach is capped and hidden
                                from its own point
                                              and ever ready to step full
                                                              into the implicit abyss

                                                                                              which is never there




                                   in the event of evasion
                                   from certain karma

                                   Dick and Bruce will slip
                                   away to an upper room –

                                   they are useless in crowd –
                                   to don costume alone and

                                   deep under their masks,
                                   where plain windows

                                   show a city behind their
                                   deeper selves where they

                                   ease out over edge and
                                   cornice with only shadow

                                   to accompany then stepped
                                   descent through air defined

                                   by façade twenty storeys deep
                                   via flagpole to where the real action

                                   always is





                                from the
                brick-laced chimney stacks and piped rooftops
                the streetlight cast a perfect yellow circle
                below around the trash can and rubbish

                but the sure-finned Batmobile shifted in suspension
                cast her headlights up to the right as she
                reversed back around on second




                           Detective Comics #345

                                     there –
                           a hole in the darkness
                           there is movement
                           there is a world
                           there is an outside

                           here – is an inside

                           must make sense of it all
                           the world is looking

                                     yes –
                           to cowl my true nature
                           the only way to operate
                           in the world

                           HE HAS CUT HIMSELF
                           OFF FROM THE WORLD –
                           DOOMED … TO LIVE APART
                           FROM … FELLOW HUMAN
                           BEINGS … SOLITARY*


* ‘found’ epilogue to ‘The Blockbuster Invasion of Gotham City’ story in Detective Comics #345, p.14, panel 3, November 1965; spoken by ‘Bruce Wayne’ disguised as ‘Roland Desmond’; writer: Gardner Fox, artist: Carmine Infantino




                                oh, he fell alright
                just as craze had founded woman all

                pointy-toed and hands on hips
                and I-don’t-know-what-you-think-you’re-looking-at

                blinded by the depth
                he plunged hands-downward protecting his sight

                swung into the lobby
                and through revolving door to the evening street with

                all manner of clatter and shoe-scrape
                to all manner of zok! and pow!





                                while reading
                of Sylvia’s stay in Heptonstall
                after graduating from Cambridge
                                the dome
                of Adam West’s cowl – eyebrows
                raised as if scratched on as an after-thought –
                                caught my attention
                the innocent mouth and eye acting adult
                by the logical rules
                in front of the cardboard boxes
                sprayed bronze-gold to look like the
                stone cladding of the Municipal Hall




                                early evening

                the whole borough of neighbourhood
                was blind, save occasional kitchen

                window, between the footings of an
                elevated rail line emerged a mouth

                with tongue slightly too big as it talked,
                fingered the lady’s necklace, closed its

                mouth to shoot, beads bouncing about
                the street, moon through metal lattice




                was there a moon
                on the alleyway wall
                confused in front of
                the city skyline?

                the rising moon over the city
                makes action detached,
                the figure lost in silhouette
                but for highlighted cloth-crease
                and pad of shoulder

                whereas indoors
                the silhouette is lightened on body and wall
                and shadows appear
                across the face of thinking men
                while potted plants look on
                in foreground and detail

                the journey from city to house
                is between two trees as the moon descends
                you need simply lean in lunge and cape and arm
                and you’re there
                under the sole arc of light
                clashing outlines of silhouette
                interconnected and enlightened




                it is only in Autumn
                that leaves will fall to pensive infrastructure,
                that is the time when the

                Bat-figure crouches, up
                there somewhere and glanced-askance, in the
                dark sky-contemplative

                between brick stacks and
                background avenues of downtown uprise while
                below the city spreads

                about the busy bays rain-
                and gold-spattered by blue waters and ink
                under the too big moon




                when issue mounts to despair
                people stand in theatre-pose

                                              on wide open patio with
                                              receding perspective

                                high above the city
                                amid rooftop and skylight

                                                              but then there is always
                                                              uptown on the horizon

in the Infantino
district of Gotham




                above the edges of rooftop
                are ever silhouettes

                of taller building and watery tower
                by the light of the silvery moon

                sometimes hanging upside down
                will be the Batman

                cape hanging uselessly, otherwise
                he may stand on cornice

                and look down on a street lit by lamp
                and throw shadow

                over the whole façade – impasse between
                moon and lamp –

                the eternal dichotomy;
                outside the city the detail is in the sky

                between branch and leaf
                and as dawn approaches the cowl

                and the cape
                will come off




                cape and cowl

                only in the midst
                of billow and flurry

                from lifetimes passed and
                current wafts breathing

                hardly sometimes at the edges
                between lifetimes to happen

                can you rest
                your battered identity enough

                to think with true nature enough
                to be still




                Batgirl –

                peering over her glasses
                through the fourth wall

                all of a sudden there was
                long grass in silhouette

                over which to run
                and there were foregrounds

                of leaf behind which
                to proceed and she thought,

                I could keep my looks
                under cowl and let

                the quiet and angry hair
                take siting and co-ordinates,

                let the cape field the
                flow of air while

                Batmobiles rev loudly
                and float adrift the green

                and current stalks –
                aimless to behold





                of an early evening sky
                that roof top cables lay

                lank by flank of avenue
                of rise high building one

                might throw the weight
                of import in circles to

                follow where it lead but
                hold the eye open from

                throat to silhouette and
                do not flatter the process





                clothed by leaves
                under the thoughts of the moon

                her hand pulled
                his head to her; he had to hold

                tight to mere cord
                high over avenues to get

                sufficiently away





                the mask over the eyes
                is made from the darkness
                into which it blends




                sometimes even the
                broadest flow of thought –

                fan-pivoted about cowled
                head, turning tightly – cannot

                breech the tightening gap
                where casts the shadow,

                sometimes the mind
                must suspend in space

                and enfold
                its natural shape

                      he vaults
                the fence straight down the center
                      of the city
                and the outline of the moon
                the outline of the downtown skyline


                the streetlamp on the pavement
                and the moon above the sky


                the building like a giant armhair –
                immanent perpsective





                to look with semi-circular whites
                to breathe under the whitened prow

                breaking waves, to think with
                whitened arching eyebrows requires

                the hanging jaw of duty and struggle
                and unerring muscular control





                under the cowl the jaw
                hung free but set while

                pencil-white brows settle
                back into unfathomable

                recesses, like a mournful
                gothic house observed

                behind bare trees in
                autumn, fit to raise the

                pointy ears and swirl
                the cape in ‘scape of

                firm and only and
                spoken dénouement




                                despite that

                between the rear fins and
                raised front screen shield

                the case began to settle,
                and the horizontal clouds

                parted to allow the
                Vertical City silhouettes;

                ‘gee, that’s swell,’ said a
                bystander to a witness,

                ‘they have a reason to
                 drive somewhere’, vrrrmm;

                that bowler hats were off
                to work as the moon

                climbed the downpipe
                and, giantly sat over the

                steering wheel the blow
                of resolution struck, the

                apartment lights hung
                unstraight and some fell

                off silently, but really,
                and down the street –

                fin to kerb, kerb to
                bonnet – they were

                getting nowhere fast
                up the staircase




                           he ran
                like an avenue of
                closed shops at
                midnight under
                the moon, he was

                stuck, he rose
                in the air, pulled
                his cape round
                his cheek like a
                wing and hung

                like a shop sign;
                ‘fight the fear’




                from ground level, then
                when buildings rise the night

                and evening windows
                hold all tired endeavour

                the only thing to do is run
                keeping pace with the

                chain-link fence in search of
                the moon, the moon




                there was seclusion
                in the bubble of the Batmobile, that

                while the hog-engine made the destination
                along a sullen street

                there was the
                space for probing thought, that

                running into the city sun along the
                evening wall: did the

                damson clouds cut the sun or the skyline
                snag the orange sky?




                a blacknight fitted perfectly
                over the local skyline like spilt ink

                as masks and blindfolds
                drove through the light to where

                silhouettes can talk
                in strictest identity and all the books

                can lean to the right where eyes beautiful look
                over rectangular glasses




                raised brow

                he crossed his arms, watched
                the hulking step of guile and suit

                approach carefully over wet boulders,
                [the set of plan secure

                 from the phone booth
                 quiet amid all the high-rise of possibility]

                watched immobile until his face




                point north south east
                in silhouette

                rise in solitary storey,
                the wings

                of the Batman
                unfurl under the
                moon and flutter

                all manner of alleyway




                the clench of cape
                into wing opens heavy doors

                into questioning
                that will be pursued despite

                occasion of legacy
                billowing in after-tow o’er

                hill and vale
                and where leafless branches

                reach, fixed
                in growth, it is fingers will

                pull beyond
                the furl and flack to present

                as white shadow
                in response




                lines recede long
                down both flanks of avenue

                selling hats, jeans
                and deli; but leap deep into

                the perspective cut
                almost 90° to the rite of way

                and flying traces
                of the soles of your feet find

                levels of stepped architecture
                pediment to behold




                past avenues of uprise
                one can only prowl intent

                but oblivious, there may be
                clean white skylines under

                the darkest nights but
                contemplation under cowl

                or tree foreshortens
                the sweep of the deepest cape



                Batman: Oddysey

                there is so much latticed,
                bolted-over and capped

                intricacy – gantry and
                infrastructure in all direction –

                the clkk of progress
                oblivious to bolts of passing

                mist, that is why I stand
                bathed in overhead light;

                there will be plot and
                I must always be braced

                to see it, like all grown-ups

























































































4 thoughts on “Batman”

  1. I wanna go to the Gotham candy store.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Thank you for the amazing poetry. A very fun read. Thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

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