The pressure of sex

Bends mirrored love

Like stone on spandex;

It shatters it

into thin sharp fragments,

And then mends it,

fitting glass madly,

Until time and choice collapse.

"Time to win some hearts and minds!"

How cool is this comic? We didn't even talk about the costume re-design. The costume re-design was literally the least interesting thing about this comic. And that's not a slight. It's a cool re-design. A cool re-design in a cool comic. For cool people. Like you.

Blue womb in barren sand, an endless supply of civilization. Soon the city will return to the nuclear wastes, born of nuclear love. All that now remains is a man.

Brain hemorrhaging

cadaverine

cephalopod

stares, unblinking.

Fearing crosshairs

of world's grim end,

it is released.

Like grease on your beard, greed flavours the rich man's every bite. He sniffs and snorts and rummages in greed, the rich man. Crawling, he seeks just one more thing to swallow and shit. Better to burn such a creature and leave its bones for the dogs.

"Is this the one who's got you all concerned about the dirty snow? Jesus, Forrest! You and me, we bought hookers better than this for five bucks in Bangkok!"

Within the predator, prey, survivor types fallen into the trash-strewn streets, guilt blossoms, a black flower with leather petals, seeding some simulacrum of restored hope and the promise of brutal revenge.

Bro is just like us, bro. Sure he's an Avenger, and an adventurer and a ladies man, but--bro--underneath all of that, bro is actually a Zen slacker screw up. So it's okay for bro to like him. I mean, look at bro's relationship with his sidekick. That's a good dude, bro. The creators definitely aren't engaging in a high-end art rock Gen X nostalgia white wash of a shitty character, bro!

"Hey, my laserdiscs!"

Smirking mini-van mother, self-aware, symbol of a fallen world, pockets the cash. Its getting so you can't even tell who the gangbangers are anymore. School yard bullies turn out to be lost, wounded princesses, needing saving. And soldiers know sign language.

Stubborn rubber ring bearing hand strokes the veiny shaft, milking the bull, oblivious as hot cream pulses neighing into grey bucket. He is reminded of her yellow teeth. And yet he drinks.

You know how sometimes people do that thing where they come at The Odyssey or whatever from an oblique angle? Like that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern shit? What I want to know is: what if we did that with Archie in Watchmen? That rugged and loyal companion abandoned like truth in the snow. What was his story, I wonder?