Canadian Gothic: A Halloween Handful of Social Horror à la Alan Moore’s Saga of the Swamp Thing by Emie H
Before CW’s Supernatural, even The X-Files on Fox, Alan Moore was cranking out monsters of the week like nobody’s business. I wouldn’t dare credit him with the trope, but his work, especially the “American Gothic” arc on his Swamp Thing reinvention, remains my standout exemplar to date. I reckon that most who know his work recognize him through the iconography of his Watchmen or from V for Vendetta, both teeming with the flavour of political dissent. The literary wizardry behind those two texts seem to have more in common with the well-observed, deconstructive terror of Black Mirror, or even the body of work of Jordan Peele, than with the CW’s and Fox’s occult antics.
Moore’s Swamp Thing, though, is a glorious, existentialist hodgepodge of all of the above.
So, in honour of my favourite social horror, and for Halloween, I’ve written three darkly reflective poems about this often bleak world in which we find ourselves.
I would strongly recommend perusing that nearly forty-year-old comic series, or even watching the chilling, short-lived Swamp Thing show helmed by James Wan in 2019. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t shout out Ram V’s brilliant work introducing Levi Kamei to the ever-cycling mantle of Ol’ Swampy, too. While you’re at it, read all of his work, thanks.
“Long have we known of these lines – the undercurrent of magic, information, thought, whatever you choose to call it – bleeding through into our reality.
But only recently has this world begun to wonder, what if human actions and ideas have begun to bleed back?
What if human ideas have begun to pollute the consciousness of this world?”
- Ram V, Issue #5 The Swamp Thing, entitled “Survivor Bomb”
Without further ado…
INVOLUNTARY AUTOMATON
I couldn’t possibly stomach sleep –
heartbeat’s too loud inside my veins.
If I could have just
one big bite of dream,
I know a taste of solace
wouldn’t ache.
I earned my living, already
twice this month, but
with daily work,
in debt til death,
no matter what,
these lungs I got
just won’t fill
to match inflation.
Some days,
waking,
I dream I check and see
inside my bank:
gassed
to a full tank…
…just barely
breaking even to
my currency of pain.
The Last Page in Nukeface pt 2
NUKEFACE PAPERS PT. 3
No one tells me.
Why is there more
hate than love in
nothing? Absolutely.
It’s poison, for me,
alive in real life.
Even when my days
gift me my cafe cup
with free wifi
and no phone for it.
Goddamn, so
repulsive. I feel
numb, like crusty
socks, reflecting
back like some fat
cat at the big top.
And I do this
everyday, and ask,
not like a ritual,
preaching, but prey,
because I hear a
trapped scream but
these faces aren’t
people. I remember
that filthy hands
can’t touch.
My bad.
Inspiration for Rage, Revolt Against Him
RAGE, REVOLT AGAINST HIM
Threaten me,
annex my lifeblood,
seize the media,
pillage earnings
selling fellow, human people
all their needs…
sorry.
people are more
than your resources.
how could those in
government or business
possibly
conceive…
Of a not-for-profit love’s
abundance?
How could they ever
earn it…?
They’d just declare
bankruptcy.
