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. 

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.

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.