Living with Batman

[heslopian]

and I mean the Michael Keaton
kind, not the campy Adam West,
or that sissy Val Kilmer,
nor the dullard George Clooney,
and though Christian Bale
looks good in leather,
he's just too sadistic for me.

I'd serve coffee
and cold cuts
and be better in bed
than Alfred the butler
or M. Pfeiffer,
and my life would revolve
around tending his wounds,
caused by the Joker's
acidic posy,
the Penguin's Tommy umbrella,
Catwoman's fingernails
and the Riddler's, well, riddles.

I'd be happier than
a fifties' housewife
released from the prom
and bought her own stove,
on which to stir
and fry all day,
pancakes, roast lamb,
pheasant and peas,
whilst her husband
plays pool and
watches the Knicks.

most of all, I think,
I'd be freed from thought
and responsible tasks
like finding a job
and securing a girl,
studying hard
and being happy,
a symbol of manhood,
conformity.

I'd tear the mask free
and kiss Keaton's eyelids,
and that pansy Robin
would never be born,
and as I paced down
the long corridors
towards
his armoured form,
I'd lose identity,
and that, the nothingness
(beyond sex and cold cuts
and coffee) is the essence of
this fantasy.