Ross Sutherland: The Last Batman Poet

I am the last Batman poet

I see Gotham through a black rubber cowl.

In my fists, I hold the last chance of salvation.

And so I uncap the pen, 
let it all out.

I am the last Batman poet.

I am reciting a satirical poem about corporate greed,

my colossal shadow slapped against the coffeehouse wall.

“Big bankers,” I say. “Big balls, but big wankers.”

I punctuate the end of the piece with a smoke bomb.

“Hey,” says a young man in a bookshop,

“I saw you read last week. You were good.”

“Thanks,” I say, and detonate another smoke bomb.

I am the last Batman poet.

I destroy my enemies from the inside-out.

I am influenced by Justice, Physical Prowess and Gadgets.

I also like 
George Oppen.  

I am the last Batman poet.

The Joker is on the news again.

Five train guards have been slit ear-to-ear.

I make a note in my moleskin:

“Five train guards slit ear-to-ear,”

A week later, I add beneath,

“like macabre, blood-filled Zippys.”

Another poem is beginning to take its shape.

A crime is an image. I arrange them on the page:

The Blood On The Streets,

the Shrapnel, the Creep.

The Shattered Skylight, the Arkham High-Five.

I write poems with such intense political urgency:

Gotham Stop Filling Those Coffins,

10 Reasons Why Commissioner Gordon is Stupid.

I am self-publishing my next pamphlet in September,

The launch is going to be on the roof of the Von Gruenwald Tower.

There’s a free glass of wine if you get there early.

Gotham, I promise 

to sign every copy that I’ve got.

And if you live in fear

of the ruthless

and the bullet:

You’re gonna like this book a lot.