SITH RED GLOW

Sunday, July 20, 2025

A Sith red glow.
Not a procession—
an inversion.
The aisle walked up,
not down.
This maiden?
Not to be given.
Not to be named.
Not for sale.

The bodies parade:
shapes and ratios,
percentiles and anomalies,
the sus,
the bonk,
the whittled and wild.

A trio of One Piece—
perfectly synced—
followed by a raptor,
inflated and bumping
like those TikTok ghouls
of viral memory.
The absurd has weight.
The crowd accepts it.

The big boys.
The trailer dolls.
Masked.
Painted.
The Star Wars arcana,
remixed and jinxed—
a lightsaber gripped
by an anime glitch.

And him.
The one who doesn’t fit.
Roped in.
Trapped in the ritual.
Not enjoying a second
—except the view.
He’ll take that.

Hobblers.
Limpers.
Wheelers.
Speed demons.
Heel-toe stompers.
A biomechanical ballet
of fandom decay.

The hairy beast—
the shirtless blue—
a failed Mystique
or some D-list variant,
still gasping for relevance.
I guessed.
I name it.
It disappears.
That’s the game.

I’m clacking.
Keys in lap.
Sitting, seething.
Watching the pageant
of the gloriously broke.
Nobody wants the story.
Nobody wants the print.

I’m in the wrong temple—
even though my comics
are dripping
with lore
and blood
and truth.

But nobody
wants
to hang
truth.

No wall.
No budget.
No value.
A print?
Same as anything else.
Disposable prophecy.

Oh my god—
another batch of Spider-Men.
Like mold spores.
Like ritual clones.
Vendor next door
is slinging mass appeal
like it’s crack in ‘86.
Gangbusters.

I give up.

Oh look—
Demon Hunter.
Catwoman.
A Morty bobblehead
nodding
in approval
of my collapse.